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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 




— Frontispiece. 



A SONG FROM THE HEART. 



/ 



A 



• M • 



fRiBaTE • or- Flbwers 



TO THE 






MEMORY Or M0THER^ 



containing 

Thoughts on Mother's Love, Mother's Death, 

Mother's Grave, Mother's Home Beyond 

and Echoes From 

The Heart's Dearest Memories. 



ILLaStRATED. 



By John McCoy, M. D. 



REVISED AND ENLARGED 



By D. H. Wever. 



CHICAGO AND KANSAS CITY: 

WEVER & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. 

189O. 




■'«ftv 




COPYRIGHT, 
1882, 

By JOHN McCOY, M. D. 



COPYRIGHT, 
189O, 

By D. H. WEVER. 



PREFACE. 

A FTER mother's death, years ago, we searched 

diligently for something to read — some book on 

the subjects presented here. We failed to find what 

we wished, and were thus led to gathering the " flowers 

of thought " which compose this volume. 

We find that every man and woman whom the world 

has called great, and whose words have been saved for 

their wisdom and goodness, all cherished with the 

utmost tenderness their memories of Mother, of happy 

innocent childhood, and of home. Their testimony is 

always interesting, often very beautiful; and they speak 

the common sentiment of the human race. The love of 

home is universal. There is no place like home. The 

ties of home should be, and usually are, the strongest 

and most sacred of any on earth. True, in the busy 

street, young people go rushing on until the work of 

the day is over, but when night comes on, the heart is 

apt to wander back to — 

"The Old Folks at Home." 

The old house, the familiar walks about the place, the 

garden paths, the deep, old-fashioned well, the barn 

v 



vi PREFACE. 

and the gentle horse, the orchard, the family room and 
the aged ones — and especially the mother — are all 
called up, and the son or daughter is again with the 
loved ones at home. It is true that many a young man 
goes to the city and too soon forgets his father and 
mother, for we own that this is sometimes done; but 
they do not forget him. The social circle, the ball- 
room and the theatre occupy his time, and his evenings 
are spent away from his room. If this book falls into 
the hands of such a young man, and it will, we hope 
he may stop and reflect before he leaves his room at 
night, and write a letter home. 

WRITE THEM A LETTER TO-NIGHT. 

" Don't go to the theatre, concert or ball, 

But stay in your room to-night; 
Deny yourself to the friends that call, 

And a good, long letter write — 
Write to the sad old folks at home — 

Who sit when day is done, 
With folded hands and downcast eyes, 

And think of the absent one. 

" Don't selfishly scribble, * Excuse my haste, 

I've scarcely time to write.' 
Lest their drooping thoughts go wandering back 



PREFACE. vii 

To many a by-gone night — 
When they lost their needed sleep and rest, 

And every breath was a prayer, 
That God would leave their delicate babe 

To their tender love and care. 

" Don't let them feel that you've no more need 

Of their love and their counsel wise; 
For the heart grows strongly sensitive 

When age has dimmed the eyes — 
It might be well to let them believe 

You never forgot them quite; 
That you deem it a pleasure when far away, 

Long letters home to write. 

" Don't think that the young and giddy friends, 

Who make your pastime gay, 
Have half the anxious thought for you 

That the old folks have to-day. 
The duty of writing do not put off — 

Let sleep or pleasure wait — 
Lest the letter for which they have looked and longed, 

Be a day or an hour too late. 

" For the sad old folks at home, 
With locks fast turning white, 



riii PREFACE. 

Are longing to hear from the absent one — 
Write them a letter to-night. " 

There are no ties so near and dear as the ties of 
the family circle, the ties of home. More tears fall 
around the family hearth for the absent ones, the fallen 
ones, the lost ones, than any place else on earth. " Be 
it ever so humble, there is no place like home;" and 
the reason is, we know we are loved and cared for at 
home. 

We attended a concert, some years since, given by 
one of our best living artists. The audience was de- 
lighted with the excellent music, and at the close of 
each piece most heartily applauded. The concert was 
well advanced when the artist came on the stage, and 
the piano commenced softly to count off the notes of — 

" Home, Sweet Home." 
In a moment the large house roared with applause, and 
the singer could scarcely proceed. But the song over, 
the eager audience called the singer back, and applause 
again shook the house as a welcome to — 
"The Old Folks at Home." 
Tears filled the eyes of that vast audience, and many a 
strong man wept like a child, as his thoughts went 
back " home again. " 



PREFACE. ix 

Parents sometimes think their children do not care 
for them, do not love them, because they stay long 
from home, and write but few and short letters ; but 
such we do not believe to be the case. That young 
man who had not written home for months, sat by a 
beautiful young lady whom he had accompanied to 
the opera, and as " Home, Sweet Home! " floated 
out over the audience, tears ran d©wn his face. 
Thoughts of his home and the mother that he loved, 
came vividly before his mind, and awakened the deep- 
est emotions. 

It is a great mistake for, a young man not to write 
often to his mother ; but it is seldom for want of love 
and respect for her that he neglects to do so. It is care- 
lessness. The young not only fail in showing consider- 
ate attention, but they too often do not fully appreciate 
the self-sacrificing love and benign presence of mother; 
like the air and the sunlight, she and her tender minis- 
tries are received and looked upon as a matter of 
course. And how often will the wealth of her affec- 
tions not be wholly known or felt till she is at rest in 
the home of the soul. Then they will regret that they 
did not write often, and that they staid so much from 
home. Their thoughtless negligence will cost them 



x PREFACE. 

many a tear. No person who is true to purer impulses 
will neglect this blest privilege and sacred duty, 
because the time will come when the consciousness of 
having done our duty to those who bore and cherished 
us will be of more worth than fame or gold. 

This book is set forth in the hope that it may 
awaken on the part of the husband and the child a 
deeper appreciation of her who is the central figure of 
home ; that it may strengthen the family bonds, mak- 
ing them more beautiful and tender; that it may 
encourage charity, and breathe hope for that future 
where language is music, thought is light, and love is 
law. It embodies those rare gems of prose and poetry 
in which are set the most inspiring thoughts of the 
true and good of all ages. To the mature in years 
these thoughts will come as sad, sweet melodies, touch- 
ing the soul with a gentle dew of melancholy, and 
bringing into view the reflected radiance of a golden 
dawning. To the young, they will brighten and 
deepen the pleasures and memories of home, awaken- 
ing a nobler life and a grander future. J. M. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

PAGE. 

A Mother's Lament 27 

An Indian Mother's Love 148 

A Mother's Heart 33 

A Mother's Gift — The Bible 34 

A Mother's Love 47 

A Mother's Influence 75 

A Mother's Thought over a Cradle 55 

A Sweet Picture 56 

A Mother's Heart 91 

A Mother's Love m 

A Mother's Farewell to her Daughter 74 

A Mother's Treasures 133 

A Mother's Work 142 

A Mother's Cares 152 

A Mother's Faith , 192 

A Mother's Hope, 194 

Birthday Verses 62 

Better in the Morning 136 

Children 73 

Experience 151 

Fo;;get-me-not 191 

General Garfield's Mother 117 

Homeward Bound 66 

Hume Again 70 

Home Influences 175 

Home of our Childhood, 216 

Her Mother's Ear 127 

Home 193 

I'm Frightened in the Dark 84 

Is It Thou, Mother? „ . 115 

Kiss my Eyelids Down To-Night 116 

Light of Home 69 

Little Boots 121 

xi 



CONTENTS. 



Mother 19 

Maternal Love. , 22 

Mothers 29 

Mother's Love 36 

Mother's Good-bye 38 

My Place in Childhood 40 

Mother 42 

My Mother's Voice 44 

Mother's Fingers 45 

My Mother's Easy-chair 48 

Mother's Bible 50 

My Mother 59 

Mother's Boys 89 

Mother-Love 101 

Maternal Love „ 105 

My Mother's Song t 107 

My Darling's Shoes 109 

Mother's Way 171 

Mother's Wee Man 167 

My Old Silver Thimble 125 

My Good Old-Fashioned Mother 130 

Mother, the Star of my Home 204 

Memories of the Old Kitchen 206 

Motherhood 211 

On the Threshold 201 

Pass Under the Rod 81 

Papa's Letter 144 

Queen of Baby-Land 94 

Queen of the World 205 

Rock Me to Sleep 78 

Rich, Though Poor 164 

The Old Homestead * 21 

Tired Mothers 31 

The Family Bible 37 

Treasured Remembrances 52 

The Mother to her Child 57 

The Mother of Jesus 67 

To a Child Embracing its Mother 71 

The Childless Mother 82 

The Brave at Home 86 

The Little Blue Shoes 87 



CONTENTS. 



The Baby 102 

The Mother's First Grief 103 

The Mother Wants Her Boy 123 

The Spells of Home 132 

The Mother 141 

The Mother's Day-Dream 145 

To My Mother 158 

The Convict 160 

The Three Little Chairs 16S 

The Road is so Lonesome Between 179 

The Old Song 182 

The Sweetest Name 1S4 

Two Graves 173 

The Mother's Hope 194 

The Old House in the Meadow 197 

The Old Homestead 209 

Woman 54 

Willy's Grave 95 

Where's My Baby? 120 

We Shall Sleep, but not Forever 186 

Woman's Influence 187 

MOTHER'S DEATH. 

A Father to His Motherless Children 236 

A Mother's Death 272 

At Mother's Grave 294 

Baptism of an Infant at Its Mother's Funeral 247 

Dead Mother 267 

Death Scene 269 

Lips I have Kissed 270 

Letter froal Philip Phillips 219 

Lines by Whittier 271 

Mother is Dead 222 

Motherless 231 

My Mother's Prayer 233 

My Mother's Prayer — Music , 218 

My Mother's Bible 238 

My Mother 257 

My Trundle-Bed 258 

Mother's Vacant Chair 262 



CONTENTS. 



Mother's Love Cannot Die 273 

Mother-Love Undying 278 

My Mother 291 

Memories of Mother 297 

My Mother's Wheel 298 

My Mother Knelt in Prayer 302 

One by One 220 

On the Receipt of Mother's Picture 241 

On a Lock of My Mother's Hair , 252 

On the Death of a Mother 261 

On Dreaming of my Mother 279 

Recollections 280 

She is Dying 295 

The Old Arm-Chair .*..... 248 

The Dying Mother 250 

To Mother 253 

The Mother Perishing in a Snow-Storm 26; 

The Death-Bed 268 

The Dying Mother 274 

't will all be rlght in the morning 275 

To my Dead Mother 276 

The Death of Eve 284 

The Old Home without Mother 289 

The Pathos of Life , , 300 

MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

At Mother's Grave 317 

Alone 321 

At the Sepulcher 334 

Death and Funeral 341 

Hallowed Ground ^ 343 

Heart Throbs 344 

Low in the Grqund 318 

My Mother 309 

My Mother's Grave 312 

Meditations „ 315 

Meditations at the Grave 326 

Mother 331 

My Stricken Heart 342 

Nearer Thee 325 



CONTENTS. 



No Home .... 354 

Over My Mother's Grave 314 

Requiescat in Pace 356 

She Always Made Home Happy 310 

She Sleeps 322 

Saintly Sympathy , 352 

The Holy Grave 305 

Tribute to a Mother 308 

The Farewell to the Dead . . . . 339 

Thou Angel Spirit 340 

The Repose of the Holy Dead 351 

The Voice from Over the River 353 

Under the Violets 325 

Written at My Mother's Grave 319 

} MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

Changed Harmonies 390 

Crossing Over 392 

Hereafter 378 

Home is where Mother is , 380 

Home and Heaven 391 

Memories 389 

My Mother at the Gate 395 

My Mother 398 

Our Future Home 362 

The Angel of the House 361 

The Mountains of Life 377 

The Home Over There 379 

There is a World Above 384 

To My Mother : 385 

The Spirit Mother 403 

HEART ECHOES. 

A Letter to Mother f. 430 

A Mother's Advice 433 

A Reply to Ingersoll 482 

A Vanishing Dream 485 

A Name in the Sand 497 

Boy Lost 419 

Beyond 439 



xvi CONTENTS. 

Finishing Life 460 

Grandfather's Reverie 49 * 

Home Influence 4 11 

Heaven at Last 45^ 

Home 501 

If and If 459 

I Want My Mamma, too 476 

Ludwig's Love 446 

N. for Nannie and B. for Ben - 453 

Only a Tramp 424 

Remembering Mother 409 

Rock of Ages 441 

Remember Me 498 

Silent Sounds..... 417 

Seasons of Life 455 

Shall We Meet Again 458 

The Use of Tears 407 

The Road to Wisdom 408 

To My Mother , 416 

Trust 428 

The Invisible Children 429 

The Alabaster Box 444 

Two Bells 445 

The Breaking Light 474 

The Wanderer's Return 475 

Twenty Years Ago 486 

The Pretty Baby 494 

Unfinished Still 435 

Wait for Me 423 

Want to See Mother 436 



•^(Jlotfisr's Ijoue;* 3 * 





•sSl (&• 




" I feel that in the heavens above, 

The angels, whispering to one another, 
Can know, among their burning terras of love, 
None so devotional as that of 'Mother.' " 

—Foe's " To My Moth* " 

" Maternal love ! thou word that sums all bliss. " 

— Pollok. 

" Mighty is the force of motherhood ! It transforms all things by itf 
vital heart; it turns timidity into fierce courage, and dreadless defiance into 
tremulous submission; it turns thoughtlessness into foresight, and yet stills 
all self-denial into calm content. " — George Eliot. 




MOTHER! 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

Professor David Swing. 

\ S in the blade of grass and in the smallest herb, the 
-t* first years of our globe gave signs of the coming 
tree; as in the first drops of rain there was the promise 
of a coming ocean, as in the little garden of Eden there 
lay the prophecy of homes and cities and measureless 
fields ; so the earliest instincts and affections of animal life 
were advance heralds of a profound devotion destined 
to appear in the form of a mother's love. Each wild 
beast which to the death would defend its young, each 
bird that screamed and fluttered when an enemy ap- 
proached its nest, said in distinct accents that Nature 
was preparing the way for a sublime sentiment — the 
attachment of a human mother to her children. It is 
proof of the defective civilization of the classics that 
the mother did not hold a high place in the esteem of 
the great men of that period. It was in a more ad- 
vanced stage of man that Cowper sang 

" Oh that those lips had language." 

What tears! what night-watching! what solicitude! 

19 



20 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

what self-denial! what joy! what pure affection are in- 
cluded in the word " Mother! " She literally dies for 
her children. To them she gives all her thoughts and 
powers of mind and body. It is not to be wondered at 
that when writers, sacred or profane, have desired to 
convey some adequate notion of the love of God for 
His universe, they have always asked us to look upon 
a mother and her child. In that attachment we find 
all the heights and depths of sentiment, and when human 
thought has compared God to a loving mother, it can 
say no more — its richest emblem is then exhausted. 
Sad thought that even our mother must leave us and 
be placed under the sod! But dying, she is the best 
proof of immortality, for her love is too divine to be- 
come dust. 




Even among animals, the heart of a mother is a sublime thing. 

— Dumas. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 21 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

f\ WHETHER the brooks be tinged with flowers, 

' Or whether the dead leaves fall, 
And whether the air be full of songs, 

Or never a song at all, 
And whether the vines of the strawberries, 

Or frosts through the grasses run, 
And whether it rain or whether it shines, 

Is all to me as one. 
For bright as brightest sunshine 

The light of memory streams 
Round the old-fashioned homestead, 

Where I dreamed my earliest dreams.. 



A ND say to mothers what a holy charge 

Is theirs — with what a kingly power their t» >ve 
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. 



DLISSFUL Mary Morning, mother mild, 

Mindful of naught but peace and of a child. 

— Sidney Lanier's " Sunrise. " 



MATERNAL LOVE. 

TF there is one mortal feeling free from the impurities 
of earthly frailty that tells in its slightest breathings 
of its celestial origin, it is that of a mother's love — a 
mother's chaste, overwhelming and everlasting love of 
her children. 

The name of a mother is our childhood's talisman, 
our refuge and safeguard in all our mimic misery ; 'tis 
the first half-formed word that falls from a babbling 
v tongue ; the first idea that dawns upon the mind ; the 
first, the fondest and the most lasting tie in which 
affection can bind the heart of man. 

It is not a feeling of yesterday or to-day ; it is from 
the beginning the same and unchangeable ; it owes its 
being to this world, but is independent and self-exist- 
ent, enduring while one pulse of life animates the 
breast that fosters it ; and if there be anything of 
mortality which survives the grave, surely its best and 

noble passion will never perish. 

22 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 23 

Oh ! it is a pure and holy emanation from Heaven's 
mercy, implanted in the breast of woman for the dear- 
est and wisest purposes, to be at once her truest and 
most sacred pleasure, and the safety and blessing of 
her offspring. 

Tis not selfish passion, depending for its permanency 
on the reciprocation of its advantages ; but in its sin- 
cerity it casteth out itself, and when the welfare of that 
object is at stake, it putteth away fear, and knoweth 
not weariness. It is not excited by form or feature, 
but rather, by a happy perversion of perception, im- 
bues all things with imaginary beauty. It watches 
over our helpless infancy with the ceaseless benignity 
of a guardian angel, anticipates every childish wish, 
humors every childish fancy, soothes every transient 
sorrow, sings our sweet lullaby to rest, and cradles us 
on its warm and throbbing breast, and when pain and 
sickness prey upon the fragile form, what medicine is 
there like a mother's kiss, what healing pillow like a 
mother's bosom! 

And when launched upon the wide ocean of a tem- 
pestuous world, what eye gazes on our adventurous 
voyage with half the eagerness of maternal fondness, 



24 MO THER 'S LO VE. 

amid the sad yet not unpleasing contest of hopes, and 
fears, and deep anxieties ? 

When the rugged path of life has been bravely, 
patiently and nobly trodden — when prosperity has 
smiled upon us — when virtue has upheld us amid the 
world's temptations — virtue which she herself first 
planted in us — and when fame has bound her laurels 
round us, is there a heart that throbs with a more 
lively or greater pleasure ? 

Yet it is not prosperity, with her smile and beauty, 
that tries the purity and fervor of a mother's love ; it 
is in the dark and dreary precincts of adversity, amid 
the cold frowns of an unfeeling world, in poverty and 
despair, in sickness and in sorrow, that it shines with 
a brightness beyond mortality, and, stifling the secret 
of its own bosom, strives but to pour balm and conso- 
lation on the wounded sufferer; and the cup of misery, 
filled to overflowing, serves but to bind them more 
firmly and dearly to each other, as the storms of winter 
bid the sheltering ivy twine itself more closely round 
the withering oak. 

Absence cannot chill a mother's love, nor can even 
vice itself destroy a mother's kindness. The lowest 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 25 

degradations of human frailty cannot wholly blot out 
the remembrance of the first fond yearnings of your 
affection, or the faint memorial of primeval innocence; 
nay, it seems as if the very consciousness of the abject 
state of her erring child more fully developed the 
mighty force of that mysterious passion, which can 
forget and forgive all things ; and though the youth of 
her fairest hopes may be as one cast off from God and 
man, yet will she not forsake him, but participate in all 
things save his wickedness! 

I speak not of a mother's agonies when bending over 
the bed of death! nor of Rachel weeping for her chil- 
dren, because they were not! 

The love of a father may be as deep and sincere, yet 
it is calmer, and, perhaps, more calculating, and more 
fully directed in the great periods and ends of life ; it 
cannot descend to those minutiae of affection, those 
watchful cares for the minor comforts and gratifica- 
tions of existence, which a mother, from the finer sen- 
sibilities of her nature, can more readily appreciate. 

The pages of history abound with the records of 
maternal love in every age and clime, and every rank 
of life ; but it is a lesson of never-ending presence, 



26 MO THER "S LO VE. 

which the heart can feel and acknowledge, and needs 
not example to teach how to venerate. 

Can there be a being so vile and odious, so dead to 
nature's impulse, who, in return for constant care, such 
unvarying kindness, can willingly or heedlessly wound 
the heart that cherished him, and forsake the lonely 
one who nursed and sheltered him ; who can madly 
sever the sweetest bonds of human union, and bring 
down the gray hairs of his parents with sorrow to the 
grave ; who can leave them in their old age to solitude 
and poverty, while he wantons in the pride of unde- 
served prosperity ? 

If there be, why let him abjure the name of man 
and" herd with the beasts that perish, or let him feel to 
distraction that worst of human miseries, 

" How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
To have a thankless child. " — Shakespeare. 



A babe is a mother's anchor. — Beecher 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 27 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

T LOVED thee, daughter of my heart ! 

My child, I loved thee dearly ! 
And though we only met to part ! — 

How sweetly ! how severely ! 
Nor life nor death can sever 
My soul from 'thine forever. 

Thy days, my little one, were few " 

An angel's morning visit, 
That came and vanished with the dew, 

'Twas here — 'tis gone — where is it? 
Yet didst thou leave behind thee 
A clue for love to find thee. 

Darling ! my last, my youngest love, 

The crown of every other ! 
Though thou art born in heaven above, 

I am thine only mother ! 
Nor will affection let me 
Believe thou canst forget me. 



28 MO THER 'S LO VE. 

Then — thou in heaven and I on earth 
May this our hope delight us, 

That thou wilt hail my second birth, 
When death shall reunite us ; 

When worlds no more can sever 

Mother and child forever. 



— Montgomery. 



A WOMAN'S HEART. 

God's angels took a little drop of dew 

Fresh fallen from the heaven's far-off blue, 

And a white violet, so pure and bright, 

Shedding its fragrance in the morn's soft light, 

And a forget-me-not laid altogether gently out of sight 

Within the chalice of a lily white. 

With humbleness and grace they covered it, 

Made purity and sadness near to sit, 

And added pride to this and fears a few, 

One wish, but half a hope, and bright tears, too, 

Courage and sweetness in misfortune's smart, 

And out of this they molded woman's heart 



MOTHERS. 

TT7HAT a power in the very word. Mother! No 
power can break the spell which a good mother 
throws around her child. He may wander away from 
home, and may even seem for a while to forget a mother's 
prayer and a mother's kiss ; but somewhere and some- 
how that lovely face and fond caress will flash upon the 
mind. 

John Randolph said : " I should have been a 
French atheist if it had not been for one recollection, 
and that was that my departed mother used to take my 
little hand in hers, and cause me, on my knees, to say, 
'Our Father which art in heaven.'" 

No doubt hundreds and thousands of boys have 
been kept back from ruin by the hallowed influence 
which a fond and Godly mother had thrown around 
them in their early childhood. Well do we remember 
the solemn impression once made upon a boy's mind on 
accidentally coming near to where his mother was kneel- 
ing in secret prayer in the evening twilight. Ashe 

stood as if chained to the spot, he heard the low, earn- 

29 



30 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

est entreaties which that mother poured out before the 
mercy seat, that God would bless and save her children. 
If an angel had been whispering in his ear a message of 
mercy, sent direct from before the mediatorial throne, 
he would not have been more fully conscious of the fact 
that Christ was inviting him to his loving embrace. 

Richter is quoted as having said: " Unhappy the 
man whose mother does not make all mothers interest- 
ing." If the mother be true and pure, and interesting 
and gentle, she will ever live in the memory of the 
child as a model of all that is to be desired in the 
female character. And mothers should never forget 
that they wield a power which, by the blessing of God, 
can lead the child to a home in heaven. 




MOTHER'S LOVE. 31 



TIRED MOTHERS. 

— Mrs. Albert Smith. 

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee — 

Your tired knee that has so much to bear — 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair ; 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight, 
You do not prize the blessings overmuch — 

You are most too tired to pray to-night. 



But it is blessedness! A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 
We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slips away; 
And now it seems surprising strange to me 

That while I wore the badge of motherhood 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good, 



32 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

And if some night when you sit down to rest, 

You miss the elbow on your tired knee — 
This restless curly head from off your breast, 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 
If from your own the dimple hand had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again, 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped — 

I could not blame you for your heart-ache then. 



I wonder that some mothers ever fret 

At their precious darlings clinging to their gown; 
Or that their foot-prints when the days are wet, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown; 
If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor — 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my house once more; 



If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 33 

There is no woman in God's world could say 
She was more blissfully content than I; 

But ah! the dainty pillow next my own 
Is never rumpled by a shining head ! 

My singing birdling from its nest has flown — 
My little boy I used to kiss is — dead. 



A MOTHER'S HEART. 

C\ IF there be in retrospection's chain 

One link that knits us with young dreams again, 
One thought so sweet, we scarcely dare to muse 
On all the hoarded rapture it reviews — 
Which seems each instant in its backward range, 
The heart to soften and its ties to chain, 
And every spring, untouched for years, to move — 
It is the memory of a mother's love. 



34 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S GIFT— THE BIBLE. 



REMEMBER, love, who gave thee this 

When other days shall come, 
When she who had thine earliest kiss 

Sleeps in her narrow home; 
Remember 'twas a mother gave 
This gift to one she'd die to save! 



That mother sought a pledge of love, 

The holiest for her son, 
And from the gifts of God above, 

She chose a goodly one; 
She chose for her beloved boy, 
The source of light and life and joy. 

She bade him keep the gift, that when 
The parting hour should come, 

They might have hope to meet again 
In an eternal home: 

She said his faith in this would be 

Sweet incense to her memory. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 35 

And should the scoffer in his pride, 

Laugh that fond faith to scorn, 
And bid him cast the pledge aside, 

That he from youth had borne, 
She bade him pause and ask his breast 
If she, or he, had loved him best. 

A parent's blessing on her son 

Goes with this holy thing ; 
The love that would retain the one, 

Must to the other cling. 
Remember 'tis no idle toy : 
A mother's gift ! remember boy ! 




36 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

— "John S. Reid in Gulzer. 

"QY her my lisping tongue in prayer 

Was taught to bless the God of light, 
Her kindness soothed my childish care, 

And watched my slumbers during night. 
Poor is the immortal sculptor's art, 

The painter's pencil, poet's song, 
Compared to her who moulds the he 

With plastic hand while pure and young. 
A sister's love is warm and kind, 
A brother's strong as hand of time ; 
And sweet the love of kindred mind, 
But, mother, these are not like thine. 

Dear mother, from thy home above, 
Still come and bless me with thy love. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 37 



THE FAMILY BIBLE. 

TT7HAT household thoughts around thee as their 

shrine, 
Cling reverently! of anxious looks beguiled, 

My mother's eyes upon thy page divine, 
Each day were bent; — her accents gravely mild, 
Breathed out thy lore, whilst I, a dreaming child, 

Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away, 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, 

Some fresh discovered nook for woodland play, 
Some secret nest; — yet would the solemn word 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 

Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost; — for which in darker years, 
O book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears, 

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee! 

— Mrs. Hetnans. 



38 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



MOTHER'S GOOD-BYE. 



QIT down by the side of your mother, my boy, 

You have only a moment I know; 
But you will stay 'till I give you my parting advice, 
Tis all that I have to bestow. 



You leave us to seek for employment, my boy, 
By the world you have yet to be tried; 

But in all the temptations and struggles you meet, 
May your heart in your Savior confide. 

Hold fast to the right, hold fast to the right, 
Wherever your footsteps may roam, 

Oh, forsake not the way of salvation, my boy, 
That you learned from your mother at home. 

You'll find in your satchel a Bible, my boy, 

'Tis a book of all others the best ; 
It will teach you to live, and help you to die, 

And lead to the gates of the blest. 



MO THEWS L O VE. 39 

I gave you to God, in your cradle, my boy, 
I have taught you the best that I know; 

And as long as his mercy permits me to live, 
I shall never cease praying for you. 

Your father is coming to bid you good-by, 

Oh, how lonely and sad we shall be; 
But when from the scenes of your childhood and youth, 

You'll think of your father and me. 

I want you to feel every word I have said, 
For it comes from the depths of my love; 

And, my boy, if we never behold you on earth, 
Will you promise to meet us above! 




40 MO THER 'S L~f£. 



MY PLACE IN CHILDHOOD. 

— S. Lover. 

n^HERE was a place in childhood, that I remember 
1 well, 
And there a voice of sweetest tone, bright fairy tales 

did tell, 
And gentle words, and fond embrace, were given with 

joy to me, 
When I was in that happy place upon my mother's 

knee. 



When fairy tales were ended, " good-night," she softly 

said, 
And kissed and laid me down to sleep upon my tiny bed, 
And holy words she taught me there; methinks I yet 

can see 
Herangel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee. 



In the sickness of my childhood, the perils of my prime, 
The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of every time, 



<! O 
3 m 



w P- 

p re 




MO THER 'S LOVE. i,\ 

When doubt and danger weigh me down, then plead- 
ing all for me, 

It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent my mother's 
knee. 



C\ GOD, since ever I could speak, 

My voice had fallen on faithful ears, 
'Twas " Mother " in my triumph hour, 
And " Mother " in my time of tears. 

—Laura C. Redden, in " Dear Mother " 



HPHE mother, in her office, holds the key 
A Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin 
Of character, and makes the being who would be a 

savage, 
But for her gentle cares, a Christian man. — Old Play. 



TV /TY CHILD is lying on my knees ; 

The signs of heaven she reads : 
My face is all the heaven she sees, 

Is all the heaven she needs. — Geo. Macdonald. 



4a MO THER 'S LOVE. 



MOTHER. 

f\F all the words cherished in the recollection of 
man — of all the names held sacred in his memory, 
that of mother falls upon his heart with the most sub- 
lime influence. How sweet the recollection in after 
years of a mother's tender training ; and who is there 
that finds no relief in recurring to the scenes of his 
infancy and youth, gilded with the recollection of a 
mother's tenderness. And how many have nobly 
owned that to the salutary influence, then exerted, 
they must ascribe their future success, their avoidance 
of evil, when no eyes were upon them, but when rested 
on the heart, the warnings, the prayers, and tears of a 
mother. 

The father may be tenderly loved, and all the affec- 
tions of the heart may be drawn out to him who blessed 
us before reason dawned upon our minds, or our infant 
lips could speak his name ; but still a mother's prayers 
and a mother's entreaties will survive the discordant ele- 
ments of the world, after every other vestige of better 
days shall have been obliterated from the mind. Others 



Z'SZOFE. 



mo mm? 'stove. 43 

may love us fondly, but never again while time is ours 
shall any one's love be to us as fond, as tender, as de- 
voted, as was that of our dear old trembling mother. 
Through helpless infancy her throbbing heart was our 
safe protection and support, and through the ills and 
maladies of childhood her gentle hand ministered and 
soothed as none other could. I feel animated to strug- 
gle more manfully in the great battle of life, when I 
remember my mother's holy counsel to me in child- 
hood's early dawn, and in the slippery paths of youth. 
Ah! those words of tenderness — those pious precepts 
softened by a " mother's love " — too much unheeded 
then, and disregarded — live now, brightened in mem- 
ory, and constitute my sweetest recollections. Her 
prayers for me in childhood — her sparkling crystal 
tears — made an impression on my young mind as dura- 
ble as time, and even now they bid me walk in the 
paths of rectitude. And shall I be faithless to my 
mother? HEAVEN FORBID! 



44 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MY MOTHER'S VOICE. 



—N. P. Willis. 
"\ 1Y mother's voice, how often creeps 
Its cadence o'er my lonely hours, 
Like healing sent on wings of sleep, 

Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
I can't forget her melting prayer, 

Even while my pulses madly fly; 
And in the still, unbroken air, 

Her gentle tones come stealing by; 
And years, and sin, and manhood flee. 

And leave me at my mother's knee. 




MO THER 'S LOVE. 45 

MOTHER'S FINGERS. 

— yessie M. Saxby. 

IV MOTHER'S useful fingers, sewing dainty seams, 
■*■■*■ While her faith is brooding over hopeful dreams; 
While her heart is happy in a dawning love, 
Deftly move her fingers for the coming dove. 

"Mother's feeble fingers, fluttering slow and mild, 
O'er the tiny features of her welcome child, 
Stroking cherub dimples, smoothing ruffled hair, 
Tending baby treasures with unrivaled care. 

Mother's busy fingers, working late and long, 
Small and soft and tender, only through love strong, 
Swiftly working wonders, never idly still, 
Children's bread and raiment, rousing parent's skill. 

Mother's loving fingers, raising up the weak, 
Passing cold and gentle, o'er the fevered cheek, 
Soothing sick and weary, like a touch of dew ; 
Lifting sinking spirits to their life anew. 



46 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

Mother's pious fingers, turning o'er and o'er 
All the glowing pages of our sacred lore! 
Falling on the young brows with a blessing fraught, 
Mute and earnest, when her God was sought. 

Mother's faithful fingers, stretching through the cloud, 
Beckoning back the wanderer and the sinful bow'd, 
Clasping hands that virtue scarce will touch again, 
Clinging to the fallen, heedless of each stain. 

Mother's tender fingers, guiding failing eyes, 
Holding all the closer as the darling dies ; 
Lingering o'er each duty to the passive form, 
Shrouding silent features from the sun and storm. 

Mother's lifeless fingers, folded on her breast, 
All their duty ended, laid at last to rest ; 
Noble work accomplished, quiet fingers cold, 
Laid in peaceful silence 'mid the coffin mould. 

Mother's angel fingers, working golden strings 
Where, a holy harper, sweet her spirit sings ; 
Pointing out the sky-way, leading those who come, 
Dear immortal fingers, in the Father's home. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. <$ 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 

A MOTHER'S love! oh, soft and low 

As the tremulous notes of the lone dove's call, 
Or the murmur of waters that gently flow, 
On the weary heart those accents fall! 

A mother's love! the sacred thought 

Unseals the hidden fount of tears, 
As if the frozen waters caught 

The purple light of earlier years. 

A mother's love! oh, 'tis the dew 

Which nourished life's drooping flowers, 

And fitteth them to bloom anew 

'Mid fairer scenes — in brighter bowers. 



4 8 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



MY MOTHER'S EASY CHAIR. 

— Sidney Dyer, 

^HE days of my youth have all silently sped, 

And my locks are now grown thin and gray, 
My hopes like a dream in the morning have fled, 

And nothing remains but decay. 
Yet I seem but a child as I was long ago, 

When I stood by the form of my sire, 
And my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 

Oh, she was my guardian and guide all the day, 

And the angel who watched round my bed ; 
Her voice in a murmur of prayer died away, 

For blessings to rest on my head. 
Then I thought ne'er an angel that heaven could know, 

Though trained in its own peerless choir, 
Could sing like my mother who rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 

How holy the place as we gathered at night 
Round the altar where peace ever dwelt, 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 49 

To join in an anthem of praise, and unite 

In thanks which our heart truly felt. 
In his sacred old seat, with his locks white as snow, 

Sat the venerable form of our sire, 
While my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 

The cottage is gone which my infancy knew, 

And the place is despoiled of its charms, 
My friends are all gathered beneath the old yew, 

And slumber in death's folded arms ; 
But often with rapture my bosom doth glow 

As I think of my home and my sire, 
And the dearest of mothers who sang long ago 

In the old easy chair by the fire. 




50 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MOTHER'S BIBLE. 

— George F IWorris. 

rPHIS book is all that's left me now! 

Tears will unbidden start, — 
With faltering lips and throbbing brow. 

I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past, 

Here is our family tree ; 
My mother's hand this Bible clasped! 

She, dying, gave it me. 



Ah! well do I remember those 

Whose names these records bear, 
Who round the hearth-stone used to close 

After the evening prayer, 
And speak of what those pages said, 

In tones my heart would thrill! 
Though they are with the sainted dead, 

Here are they living still! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 51 

My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters dear; 
How calm was my poor mother's look, 

Who learned God's word to hear. 
Her angel face, I see it yet! 

What thronging memories come; 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I've tried; 
When all were false I found thee true, 

My counselor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasure give 

That could this volume buy; 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die. 



52 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



TREASURED REMEMBRANCES. 

T HAVE very much of treasures 
-*■ That my heart has hid away ; 
There's a little curl that's brighter 

Than the sunshine of the day; 
And a little shoe that's faded, 

Is among the treasures there — 
And I listen when I see it, 

For a footstep on the stair, 
For a patter, patter, patter, 

Of a footstep on the stair. 

Now those little feet are silent, 

And the face is hidden low 
Underneath the meadow grasses, 

And the daisies' fragrant snow: 
And I miss them in the morning, 

Pattering feet, and face so fair — 
But I listen most at bed-time, 

For the footstep on the stair, 
For a patter, patter, patter, 

Of a footstep on the stair. 



MO THER 'S LO VE. 



53 




Then she'd come and kneel beside me, 

In her little gown of white, 
And she'd say her short prayer over, 

And would kiss me sweet good-night. 
And I listen in the twilight, 

'Though I know she is not there, 
But I cannot still my yearning, 

For the footstep on the stair, 
For the patter, patter, patter, 

Of the footstep on the stair. 



54 MOTHER 'S LO VE. 



WOMAN. 

TT OW continually, in retirement and in the world, is 
the lesson of submission forced upon woman. To 
suffer, and be silent under sufferings, seems the greatest 
command she has to obey; while man is allowed to 
wrestle with calamity, and to conquer or die in the 
struggle. 

The drying a single tear hath more 

Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 



I 



F there be aught surpassing human deed or word or 
thought, it is a mother's love. 

— Marchioness de Spadara. 



'T^HE loss of a mother is always felt; even though her 
health may incapacitate her from taking any active 
part in the care of her family, still she is a sweet rally- 
ing point, around which affection and obedience, and a 
thousand tender endeavors to please, concentrate; and 
dreary is the blank when such a point is withdrawn \ 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 55 



A MOTHER'S THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 

— N. P. Willis. 

T SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 

Child of my love! I tremble to believe 
That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue 
The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — 
A heart that, from its struggle with the world, 
Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 
And, careless of the staining dust it brings, 
Asks for its idol ! Strange that flowers of earth 
Are visited by every air that stirs, 
And drink in sweetness only, while the child 
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, 
May take a blemish from the breath of love, 
And bear the blight forever. 

•I have wept 
With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! 
My life is bound up in her. But, O God ! 
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times 



56 MO THER >S LO VE. 

Bears it sweet burthen ; and if Thou hast given 
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, 
To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, 
Take Thou its love, I pray Thee ! Give it light — 
Though, following the sun, it turn from me! — 
But, by the cord thus wrung, and by the light 
Shining about her, draw me to my child! 
And link us close, O God, when near to heaven! 



A SWEET PICTURE. 

A N ingenious writer says: " If a painter wished to 
draw the finest object in the world, it would be 
the picture of a wife, with eyes expressing the serenity 
of her mind, and a countenance beaming with benevo- 
lence ; one hand lulling to rest on her arm a lovely 
infant, the other employed in presenting a moral page 
to another sweet babe, who stands at her knee listening 
to the words of truth and wisdom from its incompara- 
ble mother." 




— Page 53. 



A MOTHER'S THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 57 

THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. 

— N. P. Willis. 

''THEY tell me thou art come from a far world, 
Babe of my bosom! that these little arms, 
Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, 
Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — 
That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home, 
And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, 
Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see 
Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven! 
And what is thy far errand, my fair child? 
Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, 
To find thy way through darkness home again? 
Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky? 
Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, 
The cherub and the angel thou mayest be, 
A life's probation in this sadder world? 
Art thou with memory of two things only, 
Music and light, left upon earth astray, 



58 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, 
Look'd for with fear and trembling? 

God! who gavest 
Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 
To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me 
To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone! 
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — 
The angels who now visit her in dreams! 
Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more'. 
And let the light and music, which the world 
Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
Hails with sweet recognition, be to her 
A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
To lead her steps to Thee! 



ITfHAT are Raphael's Madonnas but the shadow of 
a mother's love fixed in permanent outline for- 
ever ! — Higginson. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 59 



MY MOTHER. 

— Fields. 

TT7HERE dwells the being in whose bosom affection's 
tender call meets with a responsive throb of feel- 
ing, that does not cherish with pleasure the remem- 
brance of a mother's love, and the assiduous attention 
of a mother's devotedness? When the first half-meant 
glistening of the infant eye bespoke " the first dawn of 
reason," when the puny arms first clasped the maternal 
neck, and the sweet babe seemed " a pearl of great 
price " on the bosom, who, with soul-exhausting fervor, 
pressed the dear treasure to its faithful home? And 
when the chuckling laugh, and the little, restless, elastic 
limbs of her dearest, in its playful humor, won her 
smile, who caressed the sportive child, and gave back 
kiss for kiss? It was the MOTHER. If some gloomy 
foreboding, some cloud of care, come over the sunlight 
of her hope, telling her that the bright being next her 
heart would smile no more, the tears that bathed the 
polished brow beneath her look of love were a baptism 
that would gain it a heaven. 



So MO THER 'S LOVE. 

When the tottering limbs essayed to move in the 
harmony of nature, the goal of the infant trial was 
the parent knee, that reward the parent embrace. The 
first faint lisp of language, that seemed to be taught 
by an angel, comes on the mother's ear like undefined 
music; and the first trial is to sound a mother's name. 
Oh, thought-enkindling word! connected with every 
remembered pang of sorrow, and every association of 
former happiness. 

The maternal knees are the first altar of devotion; 
and the clustering head of childhood, bowed in its 
mother's lap, pours out the sweet and acceptable prayer 
of innocence. The kind hand that falls with blessings 
on the youthful brow smoothes the couch of sleep, 
while the eternal principle of a mother's love, like a 
guardian spirit, ever watches over its repose. 

The heyday of youth has passed; and with it have 
been separated the closer ties that, bound me to my 
mother. Yet the chain of affection has been but 
loosened; not a link of it has been broken. When the 
wild war of passion rages, the memory of her love 
comes like magic over my soul, and, like " oil on the 
troubled waters," calms it to a peaceful and quiet rest. 
Oh, my mother! may he who has felt love like thine 



MO THER 'S LOVE. , 61 

never know love from any, if he once forgets thee. 
And may the rich blessings of heaven descend on 
thee, as thou hast often prayed for them to come 
upon thy child ! 



IV TOT she with trait'rous kiss her Savior stung ; 

Not she denied him with unholy tongue : 
She, when apostles shrank, could danger brave, — 
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave. 



HTHE mother's love is at first an absorbing delight, 
blunting all other sensibilities ; it is an expansion 
of the animal existence ; it enlarges the imagined 
range for self to move in ; but in after years it can 
only continue to be joy on the same terms as other 
ong-lived love ; that is, by much suppression of self, 
and power of living in the experience of another. — 
George Eliot. 



62 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 

" The heart that we have first laid near is the only one that can 
not forget that it has loved us." — Phillip Slingsby. 

IVyTY birth-day! — O beloved mother! 

My heart is with thee o'er the seas. 
I did not think to count another 

Before I wept upon thy knees — 
Before this scroll of absent years 
Was blotted with thy streaming tears. 



My own I do not care to check. 

I weep — albeit here alone — 
As if I hung upon thy neck, 

As if thy lips were on my own, 
As if this full, sad heart of mine, 
Were beating closely upon thine.. 



Four weary years! How looks she now? 

What light is in those tender eyes? 
What trace of time has touched the brow 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 63 

Whose look is borrowed of the skies 
That listen to her nightly prayer? 
How is she changed since he was there? 

Who sleeps upon her heart alway — 
Whose name upon her lips is worn — 

For whom the night seems made to pray— - 
For whom she wakes to pray at morn — 

Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, 

Who weeps these tears to think of her? 

I know not if my mother's eyes 

Would find me changed in slighter things ; 
I've wander'd beneath many skies, 

And tasted of some bitter springs ; 
And many leaves once fair and gay, 

From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — 
But, as these looser leaves depart, 

The lessen'd flower gets near the core, 
And, when deserted quite, the heart 

Takes closer what was dear of yore — 
And yearns to those who loved it first — 
The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. 



64 MOTHjiR^ LOVE. 

Dear Mother! Dost thou love me yet? 

Am I remember'd in thy home? 
When those I love for joy are met, 

Does some one wish that I would come? 
Thou dost — I am beloved of these! 

But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er 
Night after night the Pleiades 

And finds the stars he found before — 
As turns the maiden oft her token — 

As counts the miser aye his gold — 
So, till life's silver cord is broken, 

Would I of thy fond love be told. 
My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — 
Dear Mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet? 



Oh! when the hour to meet again 

Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, 
My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain, 

And, link by link, draws nearer thee — 
When land is hail'd, and, from the shore s 

Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
With fragrance from my mother's door 

Of flowers forgotten when I am come — 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 65 

When port is gain'd, and slowly now 

The old familiar paths are pass'd, 
And, entering — unconscious — how — 

I gaze upon thy face at last, 
And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
And feel thy tears upon my cheek — 

Oh! if my heart break not with joy, 
The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 

And I shall grow once more a boy : 
And, mother! 'twill be like a dream 

That we were parted thus for years — 
And once that we have dried our tears, 

How will the days seem long and bright — 
To meet thee always with the morn, 

And hear thy blessings every night — 
Thy " dearest," thy " first-born! "— 
And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn! 



T 



HE future destiny of the child is always the work 
of the mother. — Napoleon. 



— Willis. 



66 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

HOMEWARD BOUND. 

(FROM EUROPE.) 

"PvEAR mother! in thy prayer to-night, 

There come new words and warmer tears ; 
On long, long darkness breaks the light — 
Comes home the loved, the lost for years! 

Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner! 

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! 
The ear of heaven bends low to her! 

He comes to shore who sails with me! 
The spider knows the roof unriven, 

While swings his web, though lightning blaze. 
And by a thread still fast on heaven 

I know my mother lives and prays! 

Dear mother! when our lips can speak — 
When first our tears will let us see — 

When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me — 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 67 

Twill be a pastime little sad 

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers 
Upon each other's forms have had — 

For all may flee, so love still lingers ! 

Bright flag, at yonder tapering mast! 

Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as Freedom's eagle flew! 
Strain home! oh lithe and quivering spars! 



THE MOTHER OF JESUS. 



• Willis. 



O, not alone 
TN HIS pure teachings and in Calvary's woe, 

Lay the blest errand of the Savior here. 
His walk through life's dark pathway blessed yet more, 
Distant from God so infinitely far 
Was human weakness, till He came to bear, 
With us, our weaknesses awhile, that fear 
Had heard Jehovah's voice in thunder only, 
And worshiped trembling. Heaven is nearer now. 



68 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

At God's right hand sits One who was a child, 
Born as the humblest, and who here abode 
Till of our sorrows he had suffered all. 
They who now weep, remember that he wept. 
The tempted, the despised, the sorrowing, feel 
That Jesus, TOO, drank of these cups of woe. 
And oh, if of our joys he tasted less — 
If all but one passed from his lips away — 
That one — A MOTHER'S LOVE — by his partaking 
Is like a thread of heaven spun through our life, 
And we, in the untiring watch, the tears, 
The tenderness and fond trust of a mother, 
May feel a heavenly closeness unto God. 



f^OD sends us children for another purpose than 
merely to keep up the race : to enlarge our hearts ; 
to make us unselfish, and full of kindly sympathies 
and affections ; to give our souls higher aims, and to 
call out all our faculties to extend enterprise and exer- 
tion ; to bring round our firesides bright faces, and 
happy smiles, and loving, tender hearts. — Mary Howitt. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 69 

LIGHT OF HOME. 

— Sarah Josepha Hale. 

IV TY SON, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 

And thy spirit will sigh to roam, 
And thou must go; but never, when there, 
Forget the light of home! 

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, 

It dazzles to lead astray; 
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night 

When treading thy lonely way. 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame 

And pure as a vestal fire, — 
'Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same, 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed, 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam; 

When sails are shivered and compass lost, 
Then look to the light of home! 



7o MO THER >S LO VE. 



HOME AGAIN. 



- Abbie C. McKeever. 

i] TOME again; mother, your boy will remain 

For a time, at least, in the old home again. 
How good to see you in your cornered nook 
With knitting, or sewing, or paper, or book; 
The same sweet mother my boyhood knew, 
The faithful, the patient, the tender, and true. 

You have little changed; ah, well, maybe 
A few gray hairs in the brown I see; 
A mark or two under smiling eyes, 
So lovingly bent in your glad surprise; 
'Tis I who have changed; ah, mother mine, 
From a teasing lad to manhood's prime. 

No longer I climb on your knee at night 

For a story told in the soft firelight; 

No broken slate, or book all torn, 

Do I bring to you with its edges worn; 

But I'll come to you with my graver cares; 

You'll help me bear them with tender prayers. 



'IP 

- ,1 







— Page 70 



HOME AGAIN. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 71 

I'll come again as of old, and you 
Will help the man to be brave and true ; 
For the man's the boy, only older grown, 
And the world has many a stumbling-stone. 
Ah, mother mine, there is always rest 
When I find you in the old home nest. 



TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. 

Thomas Hood. 

f OVE thy mother, little one, 

Kiss and clasp her neck again ; 
Hereafter she may have a son 

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one. 

Gaze upon her living eyes, 

And mirror back her love for thee ; 

Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
To meet them where they cannot see. 

Gaze upon her living eyes. 



72 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Press her lips the while they glow 
With love that they have often told , 

Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 

Press her lips the while they glow ! 

Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Although it be not silver gray. 
Too early, death, led on by care, 

May snatch, save one dark lock, away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Pray for her at eve and morn, 

That heaven may long the stroke defer ; 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 

When though wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn. 



T^ HE future of society is in the hands of the mothers. 
If the world was lost through woman, she alone 
can save it. — De Beaufort. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 73 



CHILDREN. 

/CHILDREN are what mothers are. 

No fondest father's fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart, 
With all their hopes and fears, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 

His startled eyes with wonder see 

A father near him on his knee, 

Who wishes all the while to trace 

The mother in his future face ; 

But 'tis to her alone uprise 

His wakening arms ; to her '-nose eyes 

Open with joy and not surprise. 



QTORIES first heard at a mother's knee are never 
wholly forgotten — a little spring that never quite 
dries up in our journey through scorching years. 

— Ruffini. 



74 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S FAREWELL TO HER DAUGHTER. 

1\ /TY fairest child, I have no song to give you ; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; 
Yet ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 
Do noble things, not dream them all day long; 
And so make life, death and the vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 



T^HE efforts which a mother makes for the improve- 
ment of her child in knowledge and virtue are 
necessarily retired and unobtrusive. The world knows 
not of them ; and hence the world has been slow to 
perceive how powerful and extensive is this secret and 
silent influence. — J. S. C. Abbott. 



f^OD pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense 
into everlasting forgetfulness. — Beecher. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 75 



A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 

— John B. Gough. 

r KNOW myself the results of my own Sabbath- 
school instruction, and I remember the teachings 
of a praying mother. That mother taught me to pray 
in early life — gave me the, habit of praying; the 
teacher at the Sabbath-school strengthened it ; they 
stored my mind with passages of Scripture, and these 
things, I tell you, young man, we do not entirely for- 
get. They may be buried, they may be laid away 
for a time in some obscure corner of the heart, 
but by and by circumstances will show that we know 
much more than we thought. After that mother's 
death I went out into the world, exposed to its mani- 
fold temptations. I fell ; I acquired bad habits. For 
seven years of my life I wandered over God's beautiful 
earth like an unblessed spirit wandering over a barren 
desert, digging deep wells to quench my thirst and 
bringing up the dry hot sand. 

Bound with the fetters of evil habits, habits like an 
iron net encircling me in its fold — fascinated with my 
bondage, and yet with a desire, O how fervent! to stand 



76 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

where I once hoped to stand. " Ah," said one, " what 
is the effect of a mother's teaching and a mother's 
prayers, of the Sunday-school, and of early good 
habits ? " 

O! I stood there, I remember it well, feeling my 
own weakness, and thinking that the way of the trans- 
gressor is hard; knowing that the wages of sin is death; 
feeling in the great deep of my heart all the bitterness 
that arises from the consciousness of powers wasted and 
opportunities lost; conscious that I had been chasing 
mere bubbles and gained nothing. There I stood. 
That mother had passed to heaven, but her words came 
back to my mind. I remember, when one night in 
our garret the candle was failing, that she said: " John, 
I am growing blind, and I don't mind it much. But 
you are young; it is hard for you. But never mind, 
John, where I am going there is no night. There is no 
need of any candle there; the Savior is the light thereof." 
She has changed the dark gloomy garret to bask in the 
sunshine of her Savior's smiles. But her influence was 
not lost. As I stood feeling my own weakness, know- 
ing that I could not resist temptation, it seemed as if 
the very light she left as she passed, had spanned the 
dark gap of seven years of sin and dissipation and struck 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



77 



the heart and opened it. I felt utterly my own weak- 
ness, and the passages of Scripture that were stored 
away in my mind came as if whispered again into my 
ear by the loving lips of that mother. Made strong by 
the recollection of her teaching and her prayers, I fled 
from the ways that lead down to death and was saved, 
saved thr^ngh the influence of a mother's love. 




78 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 

— Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen. 

BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time! in your 

^ flight, 

Make me a child again just for to-night! 

Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 

Take me again to your arms as of yore, 

Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 

Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; 

Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 



Backward, fly backward, O swift tide of years! 
I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears! 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
Take them and give me my childhood again! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away, 
Weary of sowing for others to reap; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 79 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! 
Many asummer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed, and faded our faces between! 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again! 
Come from the silence so long and so deep, — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 

Over my heart in days that are flown, 

No love like mother love ever has shone, 

No other worship abides and endures, 

Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; 

None like a mother can charm away pain 

From the sorrowing soul and the world-weary brain; 

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 

Come let your brown hair just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
Let it fall over my forehead to-night, 
Shielding my eyes from the flickering light; 



80 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

For oh! with its sunny-edged shadows once more, 
Happy will throng the sweet visions of yore; 
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song, 
Since then again, — to my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream; 
Clasped to your arms in a loving embrace, 
With your soft light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 81 



PASS UNDER THE ROD. 

f SAW a young mother in tenderness bend 
*■ O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, 
And she kissed the soft lips as she murmured his name. 

While the dreamer lay silent in joy. 
Oh, sweet is the rose-bud encircled with dew, 

When its fragrance is flung on the air, 
So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd, 

As he lay in his innocence there. 
But I saw when»she gazed on the same lovely form, 

Pale as marble, and silent, and cold, 
But paler and colder her beautiful boy, 

And the tale of her sorrow was told! 
But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart 

And taken her treasure away, 
To allure her to heaven He has placed it on-high, 

And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
There had whispered a voice — 'twas the voice of her God 

" I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod!" 



82 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. 

—Mary Clemmer Aine:, 

if LAY my tasks down one by one, 
-*- I sit in the silence of twilight grace; 
Out in the shadow soft and drear 
Steals like a star my baby's face. 

Mockingly cold are the world's poor joys, 
How poor to me all its pomp and pride; 

In my lap lie the baby's idle toys, 
In this very room the baby died. 

I will shut these broken toys away 

Under the lid where they mutely bide; 

I will smile in the face of noisy day, 
Just as if baby had never died. 

I will take up my work once more, 

As if I had never laid it down; 
Who will dream that I ever wore 

Motherhood's fine and holy crown? 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 83 

Who will dream my life ever bore 
Fruit the sweeter in grief and pain? 

The flitting smile that the baby wore 
Outrayed the light of the loftiest brain. 

I'll meet the man in the world's rude din 
Who hath outlived his mother's kiss, 

Who hath forsaken her love for sin — 
I will be spared her pain in this. 

Man's way is hard and sin-beset; 

Many must fall, but few can win — 
Thanks, dear Shepherd! my lamb is safe, 

Safe from sorrow, and safe from sin. 

Nevertheless the way is long, 

And tears leap up in the light of the sun; 
I'd give my world for a cradle song, 

And a kiss from baby — only one. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



I'M FRIGHTENED IN THE DARK. 

TTTE sat within a lighted room, 

' ' My baby-boy and I ; 
But empty were my loving arms, 

Where he was wont to lie, 
And look up fondly in my face, 

For pretty toys were near; 
And though I called him lovingly, 

The darling would not hear. 

I yearned to clasp him to my heart, 

But wooed him all in vain, 
To leave his play and come to me 

Would give him too much pain. 
1 took the candle in my hand, 

And with a breath of air, 
Extinguished its soft, cheerful light, 

And made all darkness there. 

And soon I heard a sweet-toned voice 
To which I love to hark, 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 85 

Cry, " Mother, take me in your arms! 

I'm frightened in the dark ; " 
And then I caught the sweet boy up 

And felt him clasp me tight, 
And knew that I was needed then, 

Because there was no light. 



And as my darling grew in years, 

The brightness of my joy 
Made me adore our Father less 

Than I adored my boy. 
He called me in a tender tone — 

His voice is always mild — 
But I refused to go to him, 

And played on with my child. 



And then he blew my candle out 
By stopping Harry's breath ; 

In the anguish of that grief 
And darkness of that death, 

I cried out in a trembling voice 



86 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

And with an aching brow : 
" I'm coming to thee, O my God! 
For my heart needs thee now! " 

— By the author of Little Folks. 



THE BRAVE AT HOME. 

— Thomas B. Read. 

H^HE mother who conceals her grief 

When to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her, — 
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
Received on freedom's field of honor. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. Sj 

THE LITTLE BLUE SHOES. 

— Wm. B. Bennett. 

(\H those little, those little blue shoes! 
Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh, the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 
Those little blue unused shoes! 



For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eye meet, 

That, by God's good will, 

Years since grew still, 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 



And oh, since that baby slept, 
So hushed, how the mother has kept, 
With a tearful pleasure, 
That dear little treasure, 
And o'er them thought and wept! 



88 MO THER 'S LO VE. 

For they mind her evermore 
Of a patter along the floor, 

And blue eyes she sees 
Look up from her knees, 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 
A little sweet face 
That's a gleam in the place, 
With its little gold curls of hair. 



Then oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sight makes such fond tears start. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 89 



MOTHER'S BOYS. 



~\TES, I know there are stains on my carpet, 

The traces of small, muddy boots ; 
And I see your fair tapestry glowing, 
And spotless with flowers and fruits. 



And I know that my walls are disfigured 
With prints of small fingers and hands ; 

And that your own household most truly 
In immaculate purity stands. 

And I know that my parlor is littered 
With many old treasures and toys, 

While your own is in daintiest order, 
Unharmed by the presence of boys. 

And I know that my room is invaded 
Quite boldly all hours of the day ; 

While you sit in yours unmolested 
And dream the soft quiet away. 



go 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



Yes, I know there are four little bedsides 
Where I must stand watchful each night, 

While you go out in your carriage, 
And flash in your dresses so bright. 

Now, I think I'm a neat little woman, 
And I like my house orderly, too ; 

And am fond of all dainty belongings, 
Yet would not change places with you. 

No! keep your fair home with its order, 
Its freedom from bother and noise ; 

And keep your own fanciful leisure, 
But give me my four splendid boys. 




MO THER 'S LOVE. 91 



A MOTHER'S HEART. 

— Caroline Norton. 

TITHEN first thou comest, gentle, shy, and fond, 

My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, 
My heart received thee with a joy beyond 

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; 
Nor thought that any love again might be 
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 



Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; 

Obedient, easy to be reconciled, 

And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child! 



Not willing to be left — still by my side, 

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; 
Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying; 



92 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, or kiss the fevered cheek. 



O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade, 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower; 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind! 



Then thou, my merry love, — bold in thy glee, 
Under the bough, or by the fire-light dancing, 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, — 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, 

Full of wild and irrepressible mirth, 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth! 



Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, 

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; 

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, 

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 93 

And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 



And thine was many an art to win and bless, 

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; 

The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, 

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! 

Again my heart a new affection found, 

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. 



At length thou earnest — thou, the last and least, 
Nicknamed "The Emperor" by thy laughing brothers, 

Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, 

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others, 

Mingling with every playful infant wile 

A mimic majesty that made us smile. 



And 0, most like a regal child wert thou! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming! 
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow, 

Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming; 



94 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

And proud the lifting of thy stately heaa, 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 



Different from both! yet each succeeding claim 
I, that all other love had been forswearing, 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; 
Nor injured either by this love's comparing, 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — 

But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 



QUEEN OF BABY LAND. 

TITHO is queen of baby land? 

Mother kind and sweet, 
And her love, born above, 
Guides the little feet. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 95 



WILLY'S GRAVE. 



— Edwin Waugh. 



r PHE frosty wind was wailing wild across the wintry 

world ; 
The cloudless vault of heaven was bright with studs of 

gleaming gold ; 
The weary cotter's heavy lids had closed with closing 

day, 
And on his silent hearth a tinge of dying fire-light lay. 

The ancient hamlet seemed asleep beneath the starry 

sky; 
A little river sheathed in ice came gliding gently by ; 
The gray church in the grave-yard where the " rude 

forefathers lay," 
Stood like a mother waiting till her children came from 

play. 

No footstep trod the tiny town, the drowsy street was 

still, 
Save when the wandering night wind sang its requiem 

wild and shrill, 



96 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

The stainless snow lay thick upon those quaint old cot- 
tage eaves, 

And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung where grew last 
summer's leaves. 

Each village home was dark and still, and closed was 

every door, 
For gentle sleep had twined her arms around both rich 

and poor, — 
Save in one little cot, where, by a candle's flickering ray, 
A childless mother sighing sat, and combed her locks 

of gray. 

Her husband and her children all were in the last cold 

bed, 
Where, one by one, she'd laid them down, and left 

them with the dead ; 
Then toiling on towards her rest — a lonely pilgrim 

she — 
For God and poverty were now her only company. 

Upon the shady window-sill a well-worn Bible lay ; 
Against the wall a coat had hung for many a weary day; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 97 

And on the scanty table-top with crumbs of supper 

strewn, 
There stood beside a porringer, two little empty shoon. 

The fire was waning in the grate, the spinning-wheel 

at rest, 
The cricket's song rang loudly in that lonely woman's 

nest, 
As with her napkin thin and worn, and wet with many 

a tear, 
She wiped the little pair of shoon her darling used to 

wear. 

Her widowed heart had often leaped to hear his prattle 

small; 
He was the last that she had left, the dearest of them 

all; 
And as she rocked her- to and fro while tears came 

dropping down, 
She sighed and cried, " O, Willy love, these little 

empty shoon!" 

With gentle hand she laid them by, she laid them by 

with care, 
Nor Willy he was in his grave, and all her thoughts 

were there; 



98 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

She paused before she dropped the snick that closed 

her lambless fold, 
It grieved her heart to bar the door and leave him in 

the cold. 



A threadbare cloak she wrapped around her limbs so 

thin and chill; 
She left her lonely cot behind whilst all the world was 

still; 
And through the solitary night she took her silent way 
With weeping eyes, toward the spot where little Willy 

lay. 



The pale, cold moon had climbed aloft into the welkin 

blue, 
A snow-clad tree across the grave its leafless shadows 

threw; 
And as that mournful mother sat upon a mound thereby, 
The bitter wind of winter sighed to hear her wailing 

cry. 

" My little Willy's cowed an' still! He's not a cheep for 

me! 
Th' last leaf has dropt, th' last tiny leaf that cheered 

this withered tree. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



99 



Oh, my poor heart! my comfort's gone, aw'm lonely 

under th' sky! 
He'll never chip my cheek again, and tell me not to 

cry!" 



" Nipt-nipt i' th' bud, an' laid i' th' dust, my little 

Willy's dead, 
And a' that made me cling to life lies in this frosty 

bed, — 
He's gone! He's gone! My poor bare nest! What's a' 

this world to me! 
My darlin' lad! aw'm lonely neaw; when mun aw come 

to thee? " 



" He's crept into this last dark nook, and left me pinin 

here ! 
An' never moore his two blue e'en for me mun twinkle 

clear, 
He'll never lisp his prayers again at his poor mammy's 

knee; 
Oh, Willy! oh aw'm lonely neaw, when mun aw come 

to thee? " 



The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain, to hear that 
plaintive cry; 



loo MOTHER'S LOVE. 

The old church listened, and the spire kept pointing to 

the sky; 
With kindlier touch the bitter wind played in her locks 

of gray, 
And the queenly moon upon her head shone with a 

softened ray. 

She rose to leave that lonely bed, her heart was griev- 
ing sore, — 

One step she took and then her tears fell faster than 
before; 

She turned and gave another look, — one lingering look 
she gave, — 

Then sighing left him lying in his little wintry grave. 



I 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 101 



MOTHER-LOVE. 

— F. T. Morgan. 

GAVE my maiden-love tender and shy, 
And yet I was sad. Why ? O why ? 



I gave my wife-love pure and true, 
And yet — and yet I was longing too! 

God gave me mother-love warm and strong, 
And my sadness was lost in my lullaby song. 



"PATHER, we will be comforted! 
Thou wast the gracious giver! 
We yield her up — not dead, not dead — 

To dwell with thee forever. 
Take thou our child, — ours for a day, 

Thine while the ages blossom, 
This little shining head we lay 

In the Redeemer's bosom. 



ioa MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE BABY. 

TF we knew the baby fingers, 

Pressed against the window pane, 
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow — 

Never trouble us again — 
Would the bright eyes of our darling 

Catch the frown upon our brow ? — 
Would the prints of rosy fingers 

Vex us then as they do now ? 

Ah! those little ice-cold fingers, 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty words and actions 

Strewn along our backward track! 
How those little hands remind us 

As in snowy grace they lie, 
Not to scatter thorns — but roses— 

For our reaping by and by. 




Sweet is the image of the brooding dove! 

Holy as heaven a mother's tender love.— Mrs. Norton 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



103 



THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF, 

— Robert Smyth Chilton. 

QHE sits beside the cradle, 

And her tears are streaming fast, 
For she sees the present only, 

While she thinks of all the past: 
Of the days so full of gladness, 

When her first-born's answering kiss 
Thrilled her soul with such a rapture 

That it knew no other bliss. 
O those happy, happy moments! 

They but deepen her despair; 
For she bends above the cradle, 

And her baby is not there 1 



There are words of comfort spoken, 
And the leaden clouds of grief 

Wear the smiling bow of promise, 
And she feels a sad relief; 

But her wavering thoughts will wander, 
Till they settle on the scene 



104 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Of the dark and silent chamber, 
And of all that might have been. 

For a little vacant garment, 
Or a shining tress of hair, 

Tells her heart, in tones of anguish, 
That her baby is not there! 



She sits beside the cradle, 

But her tears no longer flow, 
For she sees a blessed vision, 

And forgets all earthly woe; 
Saintly eyes look down upon her, 

And the Voice that hushed the sea 
Stills her spirit with the whisper 

" Suffer them to come to Me." 
And while her soul is lifted 

On the soaring wings of prayer, 
Heaven's crystal gates swing inward, 

And she sees her baby therel 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 105 



MATERNAL LOVE. 

— Alexander Bethune. 

TNLIKE all other things earth knows, 
(All else may fade or change,) 
The love in a mother's heart that glows, 

Naught earthly can estrange. 
Concentrated and strong, and bright, 

A vestal flame it glows 
With pure, self-sacrificing light, 

Which no cold shadow knows. 
All that by mortal can be done 
A mother ventures for her son; 
If marked by worth or merit high, 
Her bosom beats with ecstasy; 
And though he own nor worth nor charm, 
To him her faithful heart is warm. 
Though wayward passions round him close, 
And fame and fortune prove his foes ; 
Through every change of good and ill, 
Unchanged, a mother loves him still. 
Even love itself, than life more dear, — 



io6 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



Its interchange of hope and fear ; 
Its feeling oft akin to madness ; 
Its fevered joys, and anguish-sadness ; 
Its melting moods of tenderness, 
And fancied wrongs, and fond redress, 
Hath naught to form so strong a tie 
As her deep sympathies supply. 




MOTHER'S LOVE. 107 



MY MOTHER'S SONG. 

''PHIS quiet autumn evening, out through the autumn 

gloom, 
My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear old 

home; 
And through the misty distance the years seem sad and 

long, 
Since 'neath the roof in childhood, I heard my mother's 

song; — 



A sweet old simple ballad, whose notes were soft and 

low, 
Still o'er the heart its echo in soothing numbers flow, 
Though in the grave's dark chambers the lips are silent 

long, 
That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's song. 



Oh, mother! though long parted, the memory of thy 

love 
Illumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light above; 



108 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

It nerves us in our trials to suffer and be strong — 
The sunny days of childhood come back with that old 
song. 

On the sad soul, in hours of weariness and pain, 
It falls as on the flowers falls the softest summer rain; 
And when temptation beckons into the path of wrong, 
In notes of gentle warning I hear my mother's song. 

That dear old song must ever find an echo in my heart, 
'Till by death's icy fingers its cords are snapped apart; 
One strain would still be wanting the angel choirs 

among 
If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's 

song. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 109 



MY DARLING'S SHOES. 

f^OD bless the little feet that can never go astray, 

For the little shoes are empty, in my closet laid 
away. 
I sometimes take one in my hand, forgetting till I see 
It is a little half-worn shoe, and much too small for 

me; 
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, 
And sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in 
twain. 

Oh, little feet, that weary not, I wait for them no more, 
For I am drifting on the tide, and they have reached 

the shore; 
And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little 

shoes so old, 
I try to think my darling's feet are treading streets of 

gold : 
And then I lay them down again, but always turn and 

say, 
God bless the little feet that now so surely cannot 

stray. 



no MOTHER'S LOVE. 

And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see 

The little form beside me just as it used to be; 
The little face uplifted, with its soft and tender eyes — 
Ah, me! I might have known that look was born for 

Paradise. 
I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty 

air, 
For there is nothing of my darling but the shoes he 

used to wear. 

Oh! the bitterness of parting cannot be done away 
Until I meet my darling, where his feet can never 

stray; 
When I no more am drifted upon the surging tide, 

But with him safely landed upon the river-side. 
Be patient, heart ! while waiting to see the shining 

way, 

For the little feet in the shining street can never go 

astray. 

— Anonymous. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. , 

— James Montgomery. 

A MOTHER'S love, — how sweet the name! 
What is a mother's love? — 
A noble, pure, and tender flame, 

Enkindled from above, 
To bless a heart of earthly mould; 
A warmer love than can grow cold; 
This is a mother's love. 

To bring a helpless babe to light, 

Then, while it lies forlorn, 
To gaze upon that dearest sight, 

And feel herself new-born, 
In its existence lose her own, 
And live and breathe in it alone; 

This is a mother's love. 

Its weakness in her arms to bear; 

To cherish on her breast, 
Feed it from love's own fountain there, 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

And lull it there to rest; 
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath, 
As if to guard from instant death; 

This is a mother's love. 

To mark its growth from day to day, 

Its opening charms admire, 
Catch from its eye the earliest ray 

Of intellectual fire; 
To smile and listen while it talks, 
And lend a finger when it walks; 

This is a mother's love. 

And can a mother's love grow cold? 

Can she forget her boy? 
His pleading innocence behold, 

Nor weep for grief — for joy? 
A mother may forget her child, 
While wolves devour it on the wild; 

Is this a mother's love? 

Ten thousand voices answer, " No!" 
Ye clasp your babes and kiss ; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 113 

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ; 

Yet, ah! remember this, — 
The infant, reared alone for earth, 
May live, may die, — to curse his birth ; — 

Is this a mother's love? 

A parent's hand may prove a snare ; 

The child she loves so well, 
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, 

Down the smooth road to hell ; 
Nourish its frame; — destroy its mind: 
Thus do the blind mislead the blind, 

Even with a mother's love. 

Blest infant! whom his mother taught 

Early to seek the Lord, 
And poured upon his dawning thought 

The day-spring of the word ; 
This was the lesson to her son — 
Time is eternity begun : 

Behold that mother's love. 

Blest mother! who in wisdom's path, 
By her own parent trod, 



:i4 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Thus taught her son to flee the wrath, 

And know the fear of God: 
Ah, youth! like him enjoy your prime ; 
Begin eternity in time, 

Taught by that mother's love. 

That mother's love! — how sweet the name! 

What was that mother's love? — 
The noblest, purest, tenderest flame, 

That kindles from above, 
Within a heart of earthly mould, 
As much of heaven as heart can hold, 
Nor through eternity grows cold: 

This was that mother's love. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 115 



IS IT THOU, MOTHER? 

[" ONG years ago she visited my chamber, 

Steps soft and slow, a taper in her hand, 
Her fond kiss she laid upon my eyelids, 

Fair as an angel from the unknown land; 
Mother, mother, is it thou I see? 
Mother, mother, watching over me. 

And yesterday night I saw her cross my chamber 
Soundless and light, a palm branch in her hand; 

Her mild eyes bent upon my anguish, 
Calm as an angel from the blessed land; 

Mother, mother, is it thou I see? 

Mother, mother, art thou come for me? 



n6 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



KISS MY EYELIDS DOWN TO-NIGHT. 



TT'ISS me, mother, kiss me gently, 

Kiss my eyelids down to-night, 
I'm so lonely, and without you 
Cannot say my prayers aright. 



Kiss my eyelids, loving mother, 
As you did in days long gone 

When I slept upon your bosom, 

Kiss them, mother, just once more. 

Sing to me, my darling mother, 

Sing your softest lullaby; 
Let me dream that I am sitting 

Once again upon your knee. 

Let my dreams be all about you, 
Let them all be pure and bright, 

Let me dream that you will always 
Kiss my eyelids down at night. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 117 



GENERAL GARFIELD'S MOTHER. 

TT7HEN James A. Garfield was a child, when he was 
a grown-up boy, and when he was a young man, 
his mother's love prompted her to toil and care for him, 
and to lead him in the ways of truthfulness and upright- 
ness. In return for her faithful toil and love and care, 
he labored to make her happy, and to do her honor. 

When Garfield was inaugurated President of the 
United States, on the 4th of March, 1881, after he had 
taken the oath of office in the presence of many thou- 
sand people, he kissed the Holy Bible, and then turned 
and kissed his aged mother, and his wife. No artist 
can do justice to that event. He knew how proud his 
mother was to see him installed in the highest office in 
the gift of the American people, and in that hour of 
exaltation his heart turned to her. 

Months rolled by, and he was assassinated ; and 
during all the long, weary weeks of terrible suffering 
that followed, he wrote but one letter, and that was to 
his mother. He knew she was weeping for him, and 



ii MOTHER'S LOVE. 

that her thoughts were all of her " dear afflicted son." 
He knew well the depths of his mother's love, that she 
longed and prayed for his recovery every hour of the 
long and weary days; and in answer to this love, he 
wrote only to her during those dreadful weeks. 

He was surrounded by men of state, attended by the 
leading physicians of the country, and anxiously inquired 
after and sympathized with by all civilized nations on 
earth ; he was watched over and cared for by many 
good friends, and by a devoted and faithful wife; yet 
in the midst of all this, his thoughts turned to his old 
home. 

" Mother ! dear mother ! my heart calls for you." 

" I must write to mother ; " and calling for pen and 
ink, he wrote the only letter penned by him after the 
assassin struck him down. 

When Garfield's mother heard of his assassination, 
she exclaimed : " Oh! why did they shoot my baby? " 
He was her youngest child, and her thoughts went back 
through the years of toil and care, and he was again at 
her knee. " My baby," was the dearest name, and the 
depths of a mother's love, surpassed alone by the love 



MOTHER 'S LO VE. i 19 

of God for the world, was awakened in her heart, and 
found expression in words that were dear to her when 
the President of the United States was a child in her 
arms. 



HPHE parental love which fills a woman's heart when 
she holds her little child in her arms, as even we 
childless ones must see, is something so divine, so pure 
from all selfishness, where it is felt aright, that every 
care and fatigue and sacrifice comes to the mother as a 
matter of course. — Frances Power Cobbe. 



A LL that I am my mother made me. — John Quincy 
Adams. 



'"PHE mother's yearning, that complete type of life in 
another's life which is the essence of real human 
love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in 
the base, degraded man. — George Eliot. 



120 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



WHERE'S MY BABY? 

TT THERE'S my baby? Where's my baby? 

But a little while ago, 
In my arms I held one fondly, 

And a robe of lengthened flow 
Covered little knees so dimpled, 

And each pink and chubby toe. 



Where's my baby ? I remember 

Now about the shoes so red, 
Peeping from his shortened dresses, 

And the bright curls on his head; 
Of the little teeth so pearly, 

And the first sweet words he said. 

Where's my baby ? Ask that urchin, 

Let me hear what he will say; 
" Where's your baby, ma? " he questioned, 

With a roguish look and way; 
" Guess he's grown to be a boy, now, 

Big enough to work and play." 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 

Where's my baby? Where's my baby? 

Ah ! the years fly on apace ! 
Yesterday I held and kissed it, 

In its loveliness and grace; 
But to-morrow sturdy manhood 

Takes the little baby's place. 



AM the mother of an immortal being! God be 
merciful to me a sinner! — Margaret Fuller Ossoli. 



LITTLE BOOTS. 

— Mrs. L. R. Janes. 
ATOT those I sadly laid away, 

With little stockings soft and gay, 
That sunless, heart-sick, saddest day, 

I passed beneath the rod; 
I wipe from them the gathering mold, 
I wonder at their growing old, 
Then I think how long the streets of gold 
My little one has trod. 



122 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

To-day a little larger pair 

Are traversing the hall and stair, 

Or somersaulting in the air, 

Are never, never still: 
Down at the heel! Out at the toes! 
Mud-covered! every mother knows 
How " in-and-out" her dear boy goes, 

Oft chide him as she will. 



But life and strength and glowing health, 
Come through those little boots by stealth, 
And willing errands, love's sweet wealth 

At bidding brings us joy, 
Bear with the little boots I pray; 
Soon into life they'll walk away, 
And sitting lone, your heart will say, 

Where is my little boy? 



(~\F all the relations of womanhood, wives and moth- 
ers only can enjoy " the harvest song" of inward 
peace. — Mrs. Barbauld. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 123 



THE MOTHER WANTS HER BOY. 

r PHERE'S a homestead waiting for you, my boy, 

In a quaint old-fashioned town ; 
The gray moss clings to the garden wall, 

And the dwelling is low and brown ; 
But a vacant chair by the fireside stands, 

And never a grace is said ; 
But a mother prays that her absent son 
Soon may be homeward led, 
For the mother wants her boy. 

She trains the vines and tends the flowers, 

For she says, " My boy will come ; 
And I want the quiet, humble place 

To be just the dear old home 
That it seemed when he, a gentle lad, 

Used to pluck the orchard's gold, 
And gather of roses and lilies tall, 

Far more than his hands could hold, 
And still I want my boy. " 



124 MO THER 'S LO VE. 

How well she knows the very place . 

Where you played at bat and ball ; 
And the violet cap you wore to school, 

Still hangs on its hook in the hall ; 
And when the twilight hour draws near 

She steals adown the lane 
To cosset the lambs you used to pet, 

And dream you were home again ; 
For the mother wants her boy. 

She is growing old, and her eyes are dim 

With watching day by day, 
For the children nurtured at her breast 

Have slipt from her arms away; 
Alone and lonely, she names the hours 

As the dear ones come and go : 
Their coming she calls " The time of flowers ! " 

Their going, " The hours of snow ! " 
And ever she wants her boy. 

Walk on, toil on : give strength and mind 
To the task in your chosen place ; 

But never forget the dear old home, 
And the mother's loving face ! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 125 

You may count your blessings score on score, 

You may reap your golden grain, 
But remember when her grave is made 

Your coming will be in vain, — 
Tis now she wants her boy. 



MY OLD SILVER THIMBLE. 

—Mrs. S. J. Megagee. 

'"PHE old silver thimble I've worn for years, 

How much it has helped me to do! 
In mending the rents in little ones' clothes, 
Or making them clothes that were new. 

At morn it was shown on my finger, 

When the dew still sprinkled the flowers, 
And has taken the gleam of the lamplight 
Mid latest of night's quiet hours. 

It helped to fashion the trousers, 

Which Johnnie was proud to display, 

And the fairy-like dresses that clung to 
The delicate form of dear May. 



126 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

In the dark room it quietly glittered, 
When our sweet little baby lay dead; 

Whilst it pressed in the needle that broidered 
The tiny lace cap for its head. 

And again, in the time of the bridal, 
'Twas ready to help us its best, 

In forming the robes of the birdling 
Then leaving the warm parent nest. 

And so it has proven trustworthy 
For what it was called on to do, 

No flaws have come o'er its clean surface, 
Its silver is sterling and true. 

And though for the " latest invention," 
That takes up the stitches so fast, 

It is sometimes unused and neglected, 
'Tis bright as it was in the past. 

If we, who have souls in our bodies, 
Were staunch as this thimble has been, 

On earth would be more of God's people, 
And less of corruption and sin. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 127 

Then standing at last with freed spirits, 
At the great gates of jasper and gold, 

The angels would warmly enclose us 
In God's ever-glorious fold. 



HER MOTHER'S EAR. 



— Emma M. Johnston. 
'"PHEY sat at the spinning together, 

And they spun the fine white thread; 
One face was old and the other young, 
A golden and silver head. 

And at times the young voice broke in song 

That was wonderfully sweet, 
And the mother's heart beat deep and calm, 

For her joy was most complete. 

And at times the mother counseled 

In a voice so soft and low, 
How the untried feet of her daughter 

Through this strange, rough life should go. 



itS MOTHER'S LOVE. 

There was many a holy lesson 
Inwoven with silent prayer, 

Taught to her gentle, listening child 
As they two sat spinning there. 

" And of all that I speak, my darling, 
From my older head and heart, 

God giveth me one last thing to say, 
And with it thou shalt not part. 

" Thou wilt listen to many voices — 
And ah, woe that this must be! — 

The voice of praise and the voice of love 
And the voice of flattery ; 

" But listen to me, my dearest one: 
There's one thing that thou shalt fear, 

Let never a word to my love be said 
Which her mother may not hear. 

" No matter how true, my darling one, 
The words may seem to thee, 

They are not fit for my child to hear 
If they cannot be told to me. 




-Page 127 



Bring all that is tola to tnee t>y day 
At night to thy mother's ear. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 129 

" If thou'llt ever keep thy young heart pure, 

And thy mother's heart from fear , 
Bring all that is told to thee by day 

At night to thy mother's ear." 

And thus they sat spinning together, 

And an angel bent to see 
The mother and child whose happy life 

Went on so lovingly. 

And a record was made by his golden pen, 

And this on his page he said, 
That the mother who counseled her child so well 

Need never feel afraid ; 

For God would keep the heart of the child 

Who, with tender love and fear, 
Should kneel at her mother's side at night, 

With her lips to her mother's ear. 



H 



E is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds 
peace in his home. — Goethe. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MY GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER. 

—Mrs. S. T. Perry. 

'TVHEY brought home the portrait last night to me; 

On the parlor walls it is hung. 
I gave to the artist a picture small, 

Which was taken when she was young. 
It's true to life; and there's a look in the eyes 

I never saw in another; 
And the same sweet smile that she always wore — 

Tis-my good, old-fashioned mother. 



The hair in the picture's wavy and dark, 

'Twas taken before she was gray ; 
And the same short curls, at the side, hang down — 

For she always wore it that way. 
Her hand on the Bible easily rests, 

As when, with sisters and brother, 
I knelt at her knee, reciting my verse, 

To my good, old-fashioned mother. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. l 3 ! 

Her dress it is plain and quite out of style, 

Not a puff or ruffle is there ; 
And no jewels or gold glitter and shine — 

She never had any to wear. 
Ambition for wealth, or love of display, 

We could not even discover, 
For poor in spirit and humble in heart 

Was my good, old-fashioned mother. 



Her life was crowded with work and with care ; 

How did she accomplish it all ! 
I do not remember she ever complained, 

And yet she was slender and small. 
Motives of life that were selfish or wrong, 

With Christian grace did she smother, 
She lived for her God and the loved ones at home, 

My true, good, old-fashioned mother. 



The years of her life were only three-score, 
When the messenger whispered low, 
" The Master has come and calleth for thee." 
She answered, " I'm ready to go. " 



132 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

I gaze alone on her portrait to-night, 
And more than ever I love her, 

And I thank the Lord that He gave to me 
Such a good, old-fashioned mother. 



TI7HEN Eve was brought unto Adam, he became 
filled with the Holy Spirit, and gave her the 
most sanctified, the most glorious appellations. He 
called her Eva, that is, mother ; he did not style her 
wife, but simply mother — mother of all living crea- 
tures. In this consists the glory and most precious 
ornament of woman. — Luther. 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 



— Bernard Barton. 



'TWERE blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 
Joy's visits when most brief. 



I 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 133 



A MOTHER'S TREASURES. 

HAVE some withered flowers 

That are softly laid away; 
Not because they were so beautiful 

And fragrant in their day, 
But little fingers clasped them, 

And little lips caressed, 
And little hands so tenderly 

Placed them on a " mother's" breast. 

The paper that enfolds them 

Was white in other years, 
But 'tis rumpled now and crumpled, 

And stained with many tears. 
Yet, though they look so worthless 

This paper and the flowers, 
They clasp and hold, like links of gold r 

Memories of jewel hours. 

I have some little ringlets ; 

They are softly laid away ; 
Their lustre and their beauty 

Are like the sun's glad ray. 



134 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

But 'tis not for this I prize them ; 

It is that they restore 
The tender grace of loving face 

That gladdens earth no more. 



As the shipwrecked men at midnight 

Have oft been known to cling, 
With a silent prayer, in wild despair, 

To some frail, floating thing ; 
So I, in darkened moment, 

Clasp, with a voiceless prayer, 
While wandering wide on grief's deep tide, 

These locks of golden hair. 



I have some broken playthings 

That are softly laid away 
With some dainty little garments 

Made in a long-past day. 
In each there is a history, 

But this I may not tell, 
Lest the old, old flood of sorrow 

Again should rise and swell. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 135 

Now that the skies are brightened, 

And the fearful storm is o'er, 
Let me sit in tender calmness 

On memory's silent shore, 
And count the simple treasures 

That still remain to show 
Where hope's fair freight, by saddest fate, 

Was shipwrecked long ago. 



I have another treasure 

That is softly laid away, 
And though I have not seen it 

This many a weary day, 
From everything around me 

Comes a token and a sign 
That 'tis fondly watched and guarded, 

And that it still is mine. 



When the flowers lie dead in winter, 
In their winding-sheets of snow, 

We know they'll rise to charm our eyes 
Again in summer's glow ; 



136 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

Thus I, in this chill season, 

When frost and darkness reign, 
Wait the blest spring whose warmth shall bring 

Life to my flower again. 



BETTER IN THE MORNING. 



— Leander S. Co an. 



UATOU can't help the baby, parson, 

But still I want ye to go 
Down an' look in upon her, 

An' read an' pray, you know. 
Only last week she was skippin' round 

A pullin' my whiskers and hair, 
A climbin' up to the table 

Into her little high-chair. 

" The first night that she took it, 
When her little cheeks grew red, 
When she kissed good night to papa, 
And went away to bed — 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Sez she, ' Tis headache, papa, 
Be better in mornin,' bye; ' 

An'somethin' in how she said it 
Jest made me want to cry. 



" But the mornin' brought the fever 

And her little hands were hot, 
And the pretty red of her little cheeks 

Grew into a crimson spot. 
But she laid there jest ez patient 

Ez ever a woman could, 
Takin' whatever we give her 

Better'n a grown woman would. 



" The days are terrible long an' slow, 
An' she's grown' wus in each; 

An' now she's jest a slippin' 
Clear away out ov our reach. 

Every night when I kiss her, 
Tryin' hard not to cry, 

She says in a way that kills me — ■ 

'Be better in mornin' — bye!' 



i37 



138 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

" She can't get through the night, parson, 

So I want ye to come an' pray, 
And talk with mother a little — 

You'll know jest what to say. 
Not that the baby needs it, 

Nor that we make any complaint 
That God seems to think he's needin' 

The smile uv the little saint. " 



I walked along with the corporal 

To the door of his humble home, 
To which the silent messenger 

Before me had already come; 
And if he had been a titled prince 

I would not have been honored more 
Than I was with his heartfelt welcome 

To his lowly cottage-door. 



Night falls again in the cottage; 

They move in silence and dread 
Around the room where the baby 

Lies panting upon her bed. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

" Does baby know papa, darling ? " 
And she moves her little face, 
With answer that shows she knows him ; 
But scarcely a visible trace 



Of her wonderful infantile beauty 

Remains as it was before 
The unseen, silent messenger 

Had waited at the door. 
" Papa — kiss — baby ; I's — so — tired." 

The man bows low his face, 
And two swollen hands are lifted 

In baby's last embrace. 



And into her father's grizzled beard 

The little red fingers cling, 
While her husky whispered tenderness 

Tears from a rock would wring. 
Baby — is — so — sick — papa — 

But — don't — want — you — to — cry„ " 
The little hand fell on the coverlet — 

" Be — better — in — mornin' — bye ! " 



139 



140 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

And night around baby is falling, 

Settling down dark and dense ; 
Does God need their darling in heaven, 

That he must carry her hence ? 
I prayed with tears in my voice, 

As the corporal solemnly knelt, 
With such grief as never before 

His great warm heart had felt. 

Oh! frivolous men and women! 

Do you know that around you and nigh 
Alike from the humble and haughty — 

Goeth up evermore the cry : 
" My child, my precious, my darling, 

How can I let you die ? " 
Oh, hear ye, the white lips whisper, 

" Be — better — in — mornin' — bye! " 



/^\NE lamp, thy mother's love, amid the stars shall 

lift its pure flame changeless, and before the 

throne of God burn through eternity. — N. P. Willis. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 141 



THE MOTHER. 
4 



-E. V. S. 



" A perfect woman nobly planned. " 



ATEVER too tired to hear or heed 

The slightest cry of her children's need ; 
Never impatient in look or word, 
By what tender thoughts her heart is stirred. 

Through nights of watching and busy days, 
Unwearied, she asks no need of praise; 
For others spending and being spent, 
She finds therein her sweet content. 

* 
Though decked in no robes of silken sheen, 

In her small domain she walks a queen ; 

Outshining far the costliest gem. 

A spirit meek is her diadem. 

Though fortune frown, she is brave of heart, 
No selfish thought in her life has part ; 
Patient and trustful though storms may lower ; 
A faithful friend in life's darkest hour. 



i 4 2 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S WORK. 

" She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the 
bread of idleness. " — Prov. xxxi, 27. 

T^ARLY in the morning, 

Up as soon as light, 
Overseeing breakfast, 

Putting things a-right. 
Dressing little children, 

Hearing lessons said, 
Washing baby faces, 

Toasting husband's bread. 



After breakfast, reading, 

Holding one at prayers ; 
Putting up the dinners, 

Mending little tears ; 
Good-bye, kissing children, 

Sending off to school, 
With a prayer and blessing, 

Mother's heart is full. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 143 

Washing up the dishes, 

Sweeping carpets clean, 
Doing up the chamber-work 

Sewing on machine ; 
Baby lies a-crying, 

Rubbing little eyes ; 
Mother leaves her sewing 

To sing the lullabies. 



Cutting little garments, 

Trimming children's hats, 
Writing for the papers, 

With callers having chats ; 
Hearing little footsteps 

Running through the hall, 
Telling school is over, 

As mamma's name they call. 



Talking with the children 
All about their school, 

Soothing little troubles, 
Teaching grammar rules; 



144 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Seeing about supper, 
Lighting up the room, 

Making home look cheerful, 
Expecting husband soon. 



Then, with all her headaches, 

Keeping to herself, 
Always looking cheerful, 

Other lives to bless. 
Putting to bed children, 

Hearing say their prayers, 
Giving all a good-night's kiss 

Before she goes down-stairs. 



Once more in the parlor, 

Sitting down to rest, 
Reading in the Bible 

How His promises are blest ; 
Taking all her sorrows 

And every care to One, 
With that trusting, hopeful heart, 

Which none but mothers own. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 145 



THE MOTHER'S DAY-DREAM. 



— A. C. M: 



\ MOTHER sat at her sewing, 

But her brow was full of thought ; 
The little one playing beside her, 

Her own sweet mischief wrought. 
A book on a chair lay near her ; 

'Twas open, I strove to see, 
At the old Greek artist's story : 
" I paint for eternity. " 



So I fancied all her dreaming ; 

I watched her serious eye, 
As the 'broidery dropped from her fingers, 

And she heaved a heartfelt sigh. 
She drew the little one nearer, 

And looked on the sunny face, 
Swept the bright curls from the open brow, 

And kissed it with loving grace. 



146 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

And she thought : " I, too, am an artist ; 

My life-work here I see, 
This sweet, dear face, my hand must trace, 

I must paint for eternity. 
Hence, each dark passion shadow! 

Pain's deeply-graven lines! 
Hers must be the reflected beauty 

That from the pure heart shines. 



" But how shall I blend the colors, 

How mingle the light and shade, 
Or arrange the weird surroundings 

The future has arrayed? 
Oh, life! thou has weary night-falls, 

And days all drear that be, 
But, from thy darkness, marvelous grace 

Wilt thou evoke for me? 



" Alas, that I am but a learner! 

So where shall I make me wise, 
Or obtain the rare old colors, 

The Master's precious dyes? 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 147 



I must haste to the fount of beauty, 
. Must pleadingly kneel at His feet, 
And crave, 'mid His wiser scholars, 
The humblest pupil's seat. 



" Then, hand and heart together, 

Some grace shall add each day ; 
Thus, thus, shall her face grow lustrous 

With beauty that cannot decay. 
My darling ! God guide my pencil, 

And grant me the vision to see 
In the light of His love, without blemish or stain. 

In the coming eternity. " 



Then the mother awoke from her day-dream, 

Her face grew bright again, 
And I knew her faith was strengthened 

By more than angel's ken. 
Her fingers flew the faster, 

As she sang a soft, low song ; 
It seemed like a prayer for the child so fair, 

As it thrilled the air along. 



148 MOTHER'S LOVE, 



AN INDIAN MOTHER'S LOVE. 

OS-HE-OUH-MAI, the wife of Little Wolf, one of the Iowa Indians, 
died, while at Paris, of an affection of the lungs, brought on by 
grief for the death of her young child in London. Her husband was 
unremitting in his endeavors to console and restore her to the love of life ; 
but she constantly replied : " No, no ; my four children recall me. I see 
them by the side of the Great Spirit. They stretch out their arms to me, 
and are astonished that I do not join them." 

No ! no ! I must depart 
From earth's pleasant scenes, for they but wake 
Those thrilling memories of the lost whieh shake 

The life-sands from my heart. 

Why do ye bid me stay ? 
Should the rose linger when the young buds die, 
Or the tree flourish when the branches lie 

Stricken by sad decay ? 

Doth not the parent dove, 
When her young nurslings leave their lowly home 
And soar on joyous wings to heaven's blue dome, 

Fly the deserted grave ? 




THE INDIAN MOTHER. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 149 

Why, then, should I remain? 
Have I not seen my sweet-voiced warblers soar 
So far away that Love's fond wiles no more 

May lure them back again? 

They cannot come to me ; 
But I may go to them — and, as the flower 
Awaits the dewy eve, I wait the hour 

That sets my spirit free. 

Hark! heard ye not a sound 
Sweeter than wild-bird's note or minstrel's lay? 
I know that music well, for night and day 

I hear it echoing round. 

It is the tuneful chime 
Of spirit voices ; — 'tis my infant band 
Calling the mourner from this darkened land 

To Joy's unclouded clime. 

My beautiful, my blest! 
I see them there, by the Great Spirit's throne ; 



ISO MO THER 'S LOVE. 

With winning words and fond beseeching tone 
They woo me to my rest. 

They chide my long delay, 
And wonder that I linger from their home ; 
They stretch their loving arms to bid me come — 

Now, would ye have me stay? 

^Heavenly Recognition. 



mm 




MO THER 'S LOVE. 15 1 



EXPERIENCE. 

\ LITTLE dreaming, such as mothers know; 
A little lingering over dainty things; 
A happy heart, wherein love all aglow 

Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings, 
And that is all. 

A little clasping to her yearning breast; 

A little musing over future years; 
A heart that prays, " Dear Lord, thou knowest best, 

But spare my flower life's bitterest rain of tears, " — 
And that is all. 

A little spirit speeding through the night; 

A little home grown lonely, dark and chill; 
A sad heart, groping blindly for the light; 

A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill; 
And that is all. 

A little gathering of life's broken thread; 

A little patience keeping back the tears; 
A heart that sings, " Thy darling is not dead, 

God keeps her safe through His eternal years," — 
And that is all. 



I$2 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S CARES. 



I 



DO not think that I could bear 

My daily work of woman's care 
If it were not for this, 



That Jesus seemeth always near, 
Unseen, but whispering in my ear 
Some tender word of love and cheer, 
To fill my soul with bliss! 



There are so many trivial cares 

That no one knows and no one shares, 

Too small for me to tell; 
Things e'en my husband cannot see; 
Nor his dear love uplift from me 
Each hour's unnamed perplexity, 

That mothers know so well. 



The failure of some household scheme, 
The ending of some pleasant dream, 
Deep hidden in my breast. 



MO THER >S LOVE. 153 

The weariness of children's noise, 
The yearning for that subtle poise 
That turneth duties into joys, 
And giveth inner rest. 

These secret things, however small, 
Are known to Jesus, each and all, 

And this thought brings me peace. 
I do not need to say one word ; 
He knows what thought my heart hath stirred, 
And by divine caress my Lord 

Makes all its throbbing cease. 

And then upon his loving breast 
My weary head is laid at rest 

In speechless ecstasy! 
Until it seemeth all in vain 
That care, fatigue, or mortal pain 
Should hope to drive me forth again 

From such felicity! 



154 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

PAPA'S LETTER. 

(A widow's story.) 

T WAS sitting in my study, 
Writing letters, when I heard, 
" Please, dear mamma, Mary told me 
Mamma mustn't be disturbed. 

" But Fs so tired of the kitty, 
Want some ozzer fing to do, 
Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? 
Tan't I wite a letter too? " 

" Not now, darling, mamma's busy ; 

Run and play with kitty now." 
" No, no, mamma, me wite a letter! 

Tan if 'ou will show me how. " 

I would paint my darling's portrait 
As his sweet eyes searched my face 

Hair of gold and eyes of azure, 
Form of childish witching grace. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 155 

But the eager face was clouded, 

As I slowly shook my head, 
Till I said, " I'll make a letter 

Of you, darling boy, instead." 

So I parted back the tresses 

From his forehead high and white, 

And a postage stamp I pasted 
'Mid its waves of golden light. 

Then said I, " Now little letter, 

Go away and bear good news;" 
And I smiled as down the staircase, 

Clattered loud the little shoes. 

Leaving me, the darling hurried 

Down to Mary in his glee, — 
" Mamma's witing lots of letters ; 

I's a letter, Mary, — see ! " 

No one heard the little prattle 

As once more he climbed the stair, 

Reaching his little cap and tippet, 
Standing on the entry stair. 



156 MO THER 'S LOVE. 

No one heard the front door open, 
No one saw the golden hair, 

As it floated o'er his shoulders 
In the crisp October air. 

Down the street the baby hastened 
Till he reached the office door, 

" I's a letter, Mr. Postman, 
Is there room for more ? 

" 'Cause dis letter, doin' to papa ; 

Papa lives with God, 'ou know. 
Mamma sent me for a letter ; 

Does 'ou fink 'at I tan do ? " 

But the clerk in wonder answered, 
" Not to-day, my little man. " 

" Den I'll find anover office, 
'Cause I must go if I tan. " 

Fain the clerk would have detained him, 
But the pleading face was gone, 

And the little feet were hastening — 
As the busy crowd swept on. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 157 

Suddenly the crowd was parted, 

People fled to left and right 
As a pair of maddened horses, 

At the moment dashed in sight. 

No one saw the baby figure — 

No one saw the golden hair, 
Till a voice of frightened sweetness 

Rang out on the autumn air. 

'Twas too late — a moment only 
Stood the beauteous vision there, 

Then the little face lay lifeless, 
Covered o'er with golden hair. 

Reverently they raised my darling, 

Brushed away the curls of gold, 
Saw the stamp upon the forehead,. 

Growing now so icy cold. 

Not a mark the face disfigured, 

Showing where a hoof had trod; 
But the little life was ended — 

" Papa's letter " was with God. 



158 MO THER 'S L VE. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

— N. P. Willis. 

MOTHER ! dear mother ! the feelings nurst, 
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 
'Tis the only one that will long remain ; 
And, as year by year, and day by day, 
Some friend still trusted drops away, 
Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see 
How the shorten 'd chain brings me nearer thee? — Early Poems. 



'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — 
The east is flecked with cloudy bars, 

And gliding through them one by one, 
The moon walks up her path of stars — 

The light upon her placid brow 

Received from fountains unseen now. 



And happiness is mine to-night, 

Thus springing from an unseen fount, 

And breast and brain are warm with light, 
With midnight round me on the mount — 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 159 

Its rays, like thine, fair Dian flow 
From far that Western star below. 

Dear mother! in thy love I live ; 

The life thou gav'st flows yet from thee — 
And sun-like, thou hast power to give 

Life to the earth, air, sea, for me! 
Though wandering, as this moon above, 
I'm dark without thy constant love. 



A MOTHER'S first ministration for her infant is to 

enter, as it were, the valley of the shadow of 

death, and win its life at the peril of her own. How 

different must an affection thus founded be from all 

others !' — Mrs. Sigonrney . 



ATO language can express the power, and beauty, and 
heroism, and majesty of a mother's love. It 
shrinks not where man cowers; and grows stronger 
where man faints, and over the wastes of worldly fort- 
unes sends the radiance of its quenchless fidelity like 
a star in heaven. — Chapin. 



160 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



THE CONVICT. 



These lines were written by a convict in the Ohio penitentiary. 

T'VE wandered far from thee, mother, 

Far from my happy home ; 
I've left the land that gave me birth, 

In other climes to roam ; 
And time, since then, has rolled its years 

And marked them on my brow ; 
Yet, I have often thought of thee — 

I'm thinking of thee now. 



I'm thinking on the day, mother, 

When, at my tender side, 
You watch'd the dawning of my youth, 

And kissed me in your pride : 
Then brightly was my heart lit up 

With hopes of future jo)', 
While your bright fancy honors wove 

To deck thy darling boy. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 161 

I'm thinking of the day, mother, 

When with such anxious care, 
You lifted up your heart to heaven — 

Your hope, your trust, was there : 
Fond memory brings thy parting words, 

While tears roll'd down your cheek ; 
Thy long, last, loving look told more 

Than ever words could speak. 



I'm far away from thee, mother, 

No friend is near me now, 
To soothe me with a tender word 

Or cool my burning brow ; 
The dearest ties affection wove 

Are all now torn from me ; 
They left me when the trouble came ; 

They did not love like thee. 



I'm lonely and forsaken now, 

Unpitied and unblest : 
Yet still I would not have thee know 

How sorely I'm distressed. 



162 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

I know you would not chide, mother, 
You would not give me blame ; 

But soothe me with your tender words, 
And bid me hope again. 



I would not have thee know, mother, 

How brightest hopes decay ; 
The tempter with his baleful cup 

Has dash'd them all away ; 
And shame has left its venon sting, 

To rack with anguish wild — 
Yet still I would not have thee know 

The sorrows of thy child. 



Oh! I have wander'd far, mother, 

Since I deserted thee, 
And left thy trusting heart to break 

Beyond the deep, blue sea. 
O! mother, still I love thee well, 

And long to hear thee speak, 
And feel again thy balmy breath 

Upon my careworn cheek. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 163 

But, ah! there is a thought, mother, 

Pervades my beating breast, 
That thy freed spirit may have flown 

To its eternal rest ; 
And while I wipe the tear away, 

There whispers in my ear 
A voice that speaks of heaven and thee, 

And bids me seek thee there. 



A 



MOTHER'S love, in a degree, sanctifies the most 
worthless offspring. — Hosea Ballon. 



A MOTHER is a mother still, ' 

The holiest thing alive. — Coleridge. 



A ND if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still 
love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace; and 
if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the 
world to him. — Washington Irving. 



164 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



RICH, THOUGH POOR. 

— A, D. F. Randolph. 

1VTO rood of land in all the earth, 

No ship upon the sea, 
No treasures rare of gold or gems 

Do any keep for me : 
As yesterday I worked for bread, 

So must I toil to-day! 
Yet some are not so rich as I, 

Nor I so poor as they. 

On yonder tree the sunlight falls, 

The robins on the bough ; 
Still I can hear a merrier note 

Than he is warbling now ; 
He's but an Arab of the sky, 

And never lingers long ; 
But o'erruns the livelong year 

With music and with song. 

Come gather round me, merry ones, 
And here as I sit down, 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 165 

With shouts of laughter on me place 

A mimic regal crown. 
Say, childless king, would I accept 

Your armies and domain, 
Or e'en your crown, and never feel 

These little hands again ? 



There's more of honor in their touch, 

And blessing unto me, 
Than kingdom unto kingdom joined, 

Or navies on the sea ; 
So greater gifts by them are brought 

Than Sheba's queen did bring 
To him who at Jerusalem 

Was born to be a king. 



Look at my crown, and then at yours, 
Look in my heart and thine ; 

How do our jewels now compare — 
The earthly and divine ? 

Hold up your diamonds to the light, 
Emerald and amethyst ; 



166 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

They're to those love-lit eyes— • 
Those lips so often kissed ! 

" O noblest Roman of them all ; " 

That mother good and wise, 
Who pointed to her little ones, 

The jewels of her eyes ; 
Four sparkle in my own to-day, 

Two deck a sinless brow ; 
How great my riches at the thought 

Of those in glory now. 

And still no rood of all the earth, 

No ship upon the sea, 
No treasure rare of gold or gems, 

Are safely kept for me ; 
Yet I am rich — myself a king, 

And here is my domain ! 
Which only God shall take away 

To give me back again. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 167 



MOTHER'S WEE MAN. 



r PWO violet eyes, intent and wise, 

This great world view with a grave surprise; 
Gaze at it, master it, rule, if you can! 
That is the problem — mother's wee man. 



Two sensitive ears, with unknown fears, 
Turn at each sound the darling hears; 
'Tis a strange great world, but love is its plan, 
There is no danger — mother's wee man. 

Each tiny pink fist, fit but to be kissed, 

Waves hither and thither, wherever they list; 

The right 'gainst the wrong, strike a blow when you can! 

That is the battle — mother's wee man. 



Two delicate feet, all dimpled and sweet, 
To walk this rough earth seem strangely unmeet; 
Yet tread the path boldly, it is but a span, 
Life's little crossing — mother's wee man. 



168 MO THER 'S LOVE. 



THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS. 



'"PHEY sat alone by the bright wood fire, 

The gray-haired dame and the aged sire, 

Dreaming of the days gone by ; 
The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek, 
They both had thoughts they could not speak, 

And each heart uttered a sigh. 



For their sad and tearful eyes descried 
Three little chairs placed side by side 

Against the sitting-room wall ; 
Old-fashioned enough as there they stood, 
Their seat of flag and their frames of wood, 

With their backs so straight and tall. 



Then the sire shook his silvery head, 
And with trembling voice, he gently said, 

" Mother, these empty chairs! 
They bring us such sad thoughts to-night; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 169 

We'll put them forever out of sight 

In the small, dark room up-stairs." 



But she answered, " Father, no; not yet; 
For I look at them and I forget 

That the children are away ; 
The boys come back, and our Mary, too, 
With her apron on of checkered blue, 

And sit there every day. 



" Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts, 
And Willie his laden bullets casts, 

While Mary her patchwork sews ; 
At evening the three child-like prayers 
Go up to God from these little chairs 

So softly that no one knows. 



" Johnny comes back from the billow deep ; 
Willie wakes up from the battle-field sleep 

To say ' good-night ' to me ; 
Mary's a wife and a mother no more, 



170 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

But a tired child whose playtime is o'er, 
And comes to rest at my knee. 



" So let them stand there, though empty now, 
And every time when alone we bow 

At the Father's throne to pray, 
We'll ask to meet the children above 
In our Savior's home of rest and love, 

Where no child goeth away. " 



A MOTHER would rather die than see her child 
ruined and disgraced ; and could mother-love 
save from the ways of sin, there would be but few trav- 
elers on the road that leads down to death. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. z?l 



MOTHER'S WAY. 

/^\FT within our little cottage, 
As the shadows gently fall, 

While the sunlight touches softly- 
One sweet face upon the wall, 

Do we gather close together, 
And in hushed and tender tone, 

Ask each other's full forgiveness 
For the wrong that each has done ; 

Should you wonder at this custom 
At the ending of the day, 

Eye and voice would quickly answer, 
" It was once our mother's way. " 



If our home be bright and cheery, 
If it hold a welcome true, 

Opening wide its doors of greeting 
To the many — not the few ; 

If we share our Father's bounty 
With the needy, day by day. 



172 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Tis because our hearts remember 
This was ever mother's way. 



Sometimes when our hearts grow weary 

Or our task seems very long ; 
When our burdens look too heavy, 

And we deem the right all wrong, 
Then we gain a new, fresh courage, 

As we rise to proudly say : 
" Let us do our duty bravely, 

This was our dear mother's way. " 



Thus we keep her memory precious, 
While we never cease to pray, 

That at last when lengthening shadows 
Mark the evening of life's day, 

They may find us waiting calmly 
To go home our mother's way. 



-A'**nvmous. 



MOTHER'S LOVE, 173 



TWO GRAVES. 



T)EYOND the gate are two small graves, 

Just seen in this twilight hour ; 
One marked by a costly marble shaft, 
The other by a single flower. 



'Neath one, in a casket satin-lined, 

Is a little baby face, 
Round which the ringlets like pale spun-gold, 

Cluster thick 'mid the flowers and lace. 

In the other, in a coffin plainly made, 

Wrapped up in spotless white, 
Is another child; a precious pearl 

Hid away from a mother's sight. 

And now each day, in the twilight dim, 

Together the mothers weep ; 
Far apart in life — from mansion to cot — 

At the grave's dark door they meet. 



174 MO THER >S LOVE. 

All o'er this earth, be we rich or poor, 

The mother's love is the same ; 
When the angel of death takes our darlings away, 

Tis alike to us all — the oain. 



IV TOTHERS often die of grief for their children. 
Long watching by the side of the suffering one 
exhausts the energies and breaks the heart; and when 
the child dies, she soon follows, and side by side the 
mother and child sleep in the Silent grave. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 175 



HOME INFLUENCES 

'T^HERE is music in the word home. To the old it 
brings a bewitching strain from the harp of mem- 
ory ; to the young it is a reminder of all that is near 
and dear to them. Among the many songs we are wont 
to listen to, there is not one more cherished than the 
touching melody of " Home, Sweet Home." 

Will you go back with me a few years, dear reader, 
in the history of the past, and traverse in imagination 
the gay streets and gilded salons of Paris, that once 
bright center of the world's follies and pleasures? Pass- 
ing through its splendid thoroughfares is one (an En- 
glishman) who has left his home and native land to view 
the splendors and enjoy the pleasures of a foreign country. 
He has beheld with delight, its paintings, its sculpture, 
and the grand yet graceful proportions of its buildings, 
and has yielded to the spell of the sweetest music. Yet, 
in the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was re- 
joicing most over the privileges he possessed, tempta- 
tions assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of 
its most bewitching garbs. He drank wildly and deeply 
of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought mad- 



176 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

ness. Reason was overwhelmed, and he rushed out, 
all his scruples overcome, careless of what he did or 
how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto un- 
known sea of guilt. 

The cool night airlifted the damp locks from his heat- 
ed brow, and swept with soothing touch over his flushed 
.cheeks. Walking on, calmer, but no less determined, 
strains of music from a distance met his ear. Following 
in the direction the sound indicated, he at length distin- 
guished the words and air. The song was well remem- 
bered. It was "Home, Sweet Home." Clear and 
sweet the voice of some English singer rose and fell on 
the air, in the soft cadences of that beloved melody. 

Motionless the wanderer listened till the last note 
floated away and he could hear nothing but the cease- 
less murmur of a great city. Then he turned slowly, 
with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the 
tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of 
song. 

The demon that dwells in the wine had fled ; and 
reason once more asserted her right to control. As the 
soft strains of " Sweet Home " had floated to his ear, 
memory brought up before him his own " sweet home. " 
He saw his gentle mother, and heard her speak, while 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

honest pride beamed from her eye, of her son, in whose 
nobleness and honor she could always trust ; and his 
heart smote him as he thought how little he deserved 
such confidence. He remembered her last words of 
love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those 
dear ones who gladdened that far-away home with their 
presence. Well he knew their pride in his integrity, 
and the tide of remorse swept over his spirit as he felt 
what their sorrow would be, could they have seen him 
an hour before. Subdued and repentant, he retraced 
his steps, and with this vow never to taste of the terri- 
ble draught that could so excite him to madness, was 
mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape 
from further degradation. The influence of home had 
protected him, though the sea rolled between. 

None can tell how often the commission of crime 
is prevented by such memories. If, then, the spell of 
home is so powerful, how important it is to make it 
pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful home 
and smiling face does more to make good men and 
women than all the learning and eloquence that can 
be used. It has been said that the sweetest words in 
our language are " Mother, Home and Heaven ; " and 
one might almost say the word liome included them all ; 



178 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

for who can think of home without remembering the 
gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence ? And 
is not home the dearest name for heaven ? We think 
of that better land as a home where brightness will 
never end in night. Oh, then, may our homes on earth 
be the centers of all our joys ; may they be as green 
spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary 
of the cares and perplexities of life, and drink the clear 
waters of a love which we know to be sincere and 
always unfailing. 

— Saturday Evening Post. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 179 



THE ROAD IS SO LONESOxME BETWEEN. 

— Mary Riley Smith. 

TT7HEN the crickets chirp in the evening, 

And the stars flash out in the sky, 
I sit in my lonely door-way 

And watch the children go by ; 
I look at their fresh young faces, 

And hark to each merry word ; 
For, to me, a child's own language 

Is the sweetest e'er was heard. 

And so I sit in my door-way, 

In the hour that I love the best, 
And think, as I see them passing, 

My child will come with the rest ; 
Think, when I hear the clicking 

Of the little garden gate, 
My darling's hand is upon it — . 

O, why has she come so late ? 

But the days have been slowly weaving 
Their warp of toil in my life ; 



180 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

The weeks have rolled on me their burden 
Of waiting and patience and strife ; 

The flowers that came with the summer 
Have finished their errand so sweet, 

And autumn is dropping her harvests 
Mellow and ripe at my feet. 



And yet my little girl comes not, 

And I think she has missed her way, 
And strayed from this cold, dark country 

To one of perpetual day. 
I think that the angels have found her, 

And, loving her better than we, 
Have begged the Good Father to keep her, 

Right on through eternity. 



Perhaps. But I long to enfold her, 

To tangle my hand in her hair, 
To feast my starved mouth on her kisses, 

To hear her light foot on the stair. 
I am but a poor, selfish mother, 

And mother-hearts starve, though they know 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 181 

Their children are drinking the nectar 
From lilies in heaven that blow. 



Some day I am sure I shall find her, — 

But the road is so lonesome between, 
My spirit grows sick and impatient 

For a glimpse of the pastures so green. 
Till then I shall sit in the door-way, 

In the hour that my heart loves best, 
And think when the children pass homeward, 

My child will come with the rest. 



T is the mother who molds the character and fixes 
the destiny of the child. 



182 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE OLD SONG. 

/^VH, sing again that dear old strain 

My mother sang to me, 
When holy rays of earlier days 

Gleamed through our threshold tree! 
The sunset low, in purple glow, 

Crept o'er the sanded sill ; 
She lingered there, in that old chair — 

Mother! I see thee still. 

The low-eaved roof, with mossy woof, 

And creepers trailing o'er ; 
The story long, the dear old song, 

Beside that oaken door ; 
The eyes that shone, the melting tone 

Of that sweet voice still come, 
With silvered hair and plaintive prayer — 

Blest memories of my home! 

Long years have fled; the vines are dead 
And withered that old tree, 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 183 

And never more, beside that door, 

Will mother sing to me, 
But golden gleams of hallowed themes 

Will linger to the last; 
I cherish still, with sacred thrill, 

The ashes of the past. 

Then sing again that dear old strain 

My mother sang to me, 
When holy rays of earlier days 

Gleamed through our threshold tree. 




184 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE SWEETEST NAME. 

—Caleb Dunn. 

r PHE name of mother! sweetest name 

That ever fell on mortal ear! 
The love of mother! Mightiest love 

Which Heaven permits to flourish here. 
Dissect a mother's heart and see 

The properties it doth contain — 
What pearls of love, what gems of hope — 

A mother's heart beats not in vain. 

The words of mother! when they flew 

In love's true rhetoric from her lips, 
The meteor stars of sin and shame 

Are lost amid a bright eclipse; 
And when we walk the glittering path 

Wherein temptations oft we see, 
Oh, then we realize how strong 

The power of mother's love can be. 

A mother's love! it never wanes; 
What if her boy an ingrate seems? 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 185 

The beauty of that wondrous love 

Around the thankless offspring beams; 

Though in the path of shame he walks, 

Though crime hath driven him to the bowl, 

A mother's care can yet avail — 

A mother's prayer may win his soul. 



What heart like mother's can forgive 

The oft repeated wrongs of youth ? 
What hand like hers can lead us back 

From sin to innocence and truth ? 
Oh, name of mother! sweetest name 

That ever fell on mortal ear! 
Oh, love of mother! mightiest love 

That Heaven allows to flourish here! 



TT7HEN a mother forgives, she kisses the offense 
into everlasting forgetfulness. 



186 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



WE SHALL SLEEP, BUT NOT FOREVER. 

TT7HEN we see a precious blossom 

That we tended with such care, 
Rudely taken from our bosom, 

How our aching hearts despair! 
Round its little grave we linger, 

Till the setting sun is low, 
Feeling all our hopes have perished 

With the flower we cherished so. 



We shall sleep, but not forever, 
There will be a glorious dawn; 

We shall meet to part, no never, 
On the resurrection morn! 



MO THER >S LO VE. 187 



WOMAN'S INFLUENCE. 

— Catherine E. Beecher. 

TT70MAN has been but little aware of the high in- 
citement that should stimulate to the cultivation 
of her noblest powers. The world is no longer to be 
governed by physical force, but by the influence which 
mind exerts over mind. How are the great springs of 
action in the political world put in motion? Often by 
the secret workings of a single mind, that in retirement 
plans its schemes, and comes forth to execute them only 
by presenting motives of prejudice, passion, self-inter- 
est or pride, to operate on other minds. 

Now, the world is chiefly governed by motives that 
men are ashamed to own. When do we find mankind 
acknowledging that their efforts in political life are the 
offspring of pride and the desire of self-aggrandize- 
ment, and yet who hesitates to believe that this it true? 

But there is a class of motives that men are not 
only willing but proud to own. Man does not willingly 
yield to force; he is ashamed to own he can yield to 
fear; he will not acknowledge his motives of pride, 



188 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

prejudice or passion. But none are unwilling to own 
they can be governed by reason, even the worst will 
boast of being regulated by conscience , and where is 
the person who is ashamed to own the influence of the 
kind and generous emotions of the heart? Here, then, 
is the only proper field for the ambition of our sex. 
Woman, in all her relations, is bound to "honor and 
obey " those on whom she depends for protection and 
support, nor does the truly feminine mind desire to ex- 
ceed this limitation of heaven. But where the dictates 
of authority may ever control, the voice of reason and 
affection may ever convince and persuade; and while 
others govern by motives that mankind are ashamed 
to own, the dominion of woman may be based on influ- 
ences that the heart is proud to acknowledge. 

And if it is indeed the truth that reason and con- 
science guide to the only path of happiness, and if 
affection will gain a hold on these powerful principles 
which can be attained in no other way, what high and 
holy motives are presented to woman for cultivating 
her highest powers! The development of the respond- 
ing fascinations of a purified imagination, the charms 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 189 

of a cultivated taste, the quick perceptions of an active 
mind, the power of exhibiting truth and reason by- 
perspicuous and animated conversation and writing, 
all these can be employed by woman as well as by man. 
And with these attainable faculties for gaining influ- 
ence, woman has already received from the hand of 
her Maker those warm affections and quick susceptibil- 
ities which can most surely gain the empire of the 
heart. 

Woman has never waked to her highest destinies 
and holiest hopes. She has yet to learn the purifying 
and blessed influence she may gain and maintain over 
the intellect and affections of the human mind. 
Though she may not teach from the portico, nor thun- 
der from the forum, in her secret retirements she may 
form and send forth the sages that shall govern and 
renovate the world. Though she may not gird herself 
for bloody conflict, nor sound the trumpet of war, she 
may enwrap herself in the panoply of heaven, and 
send the thrill of benevolence through a thousand 
youthful hearts. Though she may not enter the list in 
legal collision, nor sharpen her intellect amid the pas- 



i 9 o MOTHER'S LOVE. 

sions and conflicts of men, she may teach the law of 
kindness, and hush up the discords and conflicts of life. 
Though she may not be clothed as the ambassador of 
heaven, nor minister at the altar of God, as a secret 
angel of mercy she may teach His will, and cause to 
ascend the humble, but most accepted sacrifice. 



C\ WONDERFUL power! how little understood,— 

Entrusted to the mother's mind alone, 
To fashion genius, form the soul for good, 
Inspire a West or train a Washington! 



T7VEN He, that died for us upon the cross, in the 
last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was 
mindful of his mother, as if to teach us that this holy 
love should be our last worldly thought, the last point 
of earth from which the soul should take its flight for 
heaven. — Longfellow. 







A Kisa from my Mother made me a painter.— Benjamin West. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



"FORGET ME NOT." 

T^ORGET me not! in accents mild 
My mother says, beloved child 
Forget me not, when far away 
Amidst a thoughtless world you stray ; 
Forget me not, when fools would win 
Your footsteps to the paths of sin ; 
Forget me not when urged to wrong 
By passions and temptations strong ; 
Forget me not, when pleasure's snare 
Would lead you from the house of prayer. 
Forget me not, in feeble age, 
But let me then your thoughts engage, 
And think, my child, how fondly I 
Watched o'er your helpless infancy ; 
Forget me not when death shall close 
These eyelids in their last repose, 
And evening breezes softly wave 
The grass upon thy mother's grave : — 
Oh! then, whate'er thy age and lot 
May be, my child, FORGET ME not! 



191 



i 9 2 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S FAITH. 



-Anonymous. 



QHE loved you when the sunny light 

Of bliss was on your brow ; 
That bliss was sunk in sorrow's night, 
And yet she loves you now. 



She loved you when your joyous tone 

Taught every heart to thrill : 
The sweetness of that tongue is gone, 

And yet she loves you still. 

She loved you when you proudly stept, 

The gayest of the gay! 
That pride the blight of time has swept 

Unlike her love, away. 

She loved you when your home and heart 
Of fortune's smile could boast! 

She saw that smile decay — depart — 
And then she loved you most. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 193 



A WORLD. 

T^HERE is a world where no storms intrude, a haven 
of safety against the tempests of Hfe. A little 
world of joy and love, of innocence and tranquility. 
Suspicions are hot there, nor jealousies, nor falsehood 
with her double tongue, nor the venom of slander. 
Peace embraces it with outspread wings. Plenty 
broodeth there. When a man entereth it, he forget- 
eth his sorrows, and cares, and disappointments ; he 
openeth his heart to confidence, and to pleasure not 
mingled with remorse. This world is the well-ordered 
home of a virtuous and amiable woman. 



A MOTHER'S love is indeed the golden link that 
binds youth to age ; and he is still but a child, 
however time may have furrowed his cheek, or silvered 
his brow, who can yet recall, with a softened heart, the 
fond devotion, or the gentle chidings, of the best friend 
that God ever gives us. — Bovee. 



i 9 4 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE MOTHER'S HOPE. 



I 



— Laura Blanchard. 
S there, where the winds are singing 



In the happy summer-time, 
Where the raptured air is ringing 
With earth's music heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp and village chime ; 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Minglingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, 
As the laughter of a child ? 

Listen, and be now delighted, 

Morn hath touched her golden strings, 
Earth and sky their vows have plighted. 
Life and light are reunited, 

Amid countless carolings ; 
Yet, delicious as they are, 
There's a sound that's sweeter far — 
One that makes the heart rejoice 
More than all — the human voice ! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 195 

Organ finer, deeper, clearer, 

Though it be a stranger's tone, 
Than the winds and waters dearer, 
More enchanting to the hearer, 

For it answereth his own. 
But of all its witching words, 
Sweeter than the songs of birds, 
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 
Through the laughter of a child. 



Harmonies from time-touched towers, 

Haunted strains from rivulets, 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Rustling leaves and silver showers — 

These ere long the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round ; 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard, 
Ere my child could speak a word. 



Ah! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 

Fondlier formed to catch the strain — 



196 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Ear of one whose love is surer ; 
Hers, the mother, the endurer 

Of the deepest share of pain ; 
Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 
Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 
Hers to hoard, a lifetime after, 
Echoes of that infant laughter. 

Yes, a mother's large affection 

Hears, with a mysterious sense, 
Breathings that evade detection, 
Whispers faint, and fine inflection, 
Thrill in her with power intense. 
Childhood's honey'd tones untaught 
Heareth she, in loving thought, 
Tones that never thence depart, 
For she listens — with her heart! 



TNHAPPY is the man for whom his own mother 
has not made all other mothers venerable. — Rich- 



ter. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 197 



THE OLD HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. 

— Louise Chandler Moulton. 

TT stands in a sunny meadow, 

The house so mossy and brown, 
With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, 
And the gray roof sloping down. 

The trees fold their green arms round it, 

The trees, a century old, 
And the winds go chanting through them, 

And the sunbeams drop their gold. 

The cowslips spring in the marshes, 

And the roses bloom on the hill, 
And beside the brook on the pastures, 

The herds go feeding at will. 

The children have gone and left them, 

They sit in the sun alone, 
And the old wife's tears are falling, 

As she harks to the well-known tone 



198 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

That won her heart in childhood, 

That has soothed her in many a care, 

And praises her now for the brightness 
Her old face used to wear. 

She thinks again of her bridal — 
How, dressed in her robe of white, 

She stood by her gay young lover, 
In the morning's rosy light. 

Oh, the morning is rosy as ever, 
But the rose from her cheek is fled, 

And the sunshine still is golden, 
But it falls on a silvered head. 

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 
Come back in her winter-time, 

Till her feeble pulses tremble 

With the thrill of spring-time's prime. 

And looking forth from the window, 
She thinks how the trees have grown, 

Since clad in her bridal whiteness, 
She crossed the old door-stone. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 199 

Though dimmed her eye's bright azure, 
And dimmed her hair's young gold, 

The love in her girlhood plighted 
Has never grown dim nor old. 

They sat in peace in the sunshine, 

Till the day was almost done, 
And then, at its close, an angel 

Stole over the threshold stone. 

He folded their hands together — 
He touched their eyelids with balm, 

And their last breath floated upward, 
Like the close of a solemn psalm. 

Like a bridal pair they traversed 

The unseen, mystical road 
That leads to the beautiful city, 

" Whose builder and maker is God." 

Perhaps in that miracle country 

They will give her lost youth back, 

And the flowers of a vanished spring-time 
Will bloom in the spirit's track. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

One draught from the living waters 
Shall call back his manhood's prime, 

And eternal years shall measure 
The love that outlived time. 

But the shapes that they left behind them, 

The wrinkles and silver hair, 
Made holy to us by the kisses 

The angel had printed there, 

We will hide away 'neath the willows, 
When the day is low in the west, 

Where the sunbeams cannot find them, 
Nor the winds disturb their rest. 

And we'll suffer no tell-tale tombstone, 

With its age and date to rise 
O'er the two who are old no longer 

In the Father's House in the skies. 



T 



HE mother's heart is the child's school-room, 

Beecher. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



ON THE THRESHOLD. 

A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER LEAVING HOME. 

— Anonymous. 

QTANDING on the threshold, 

With her waking heart and mind, 
Standing on the threshold, 

With her childhood left behind ; 
The woman softness blending 

With a look of sweet surprise 
For life and all its marvels 

That lights the clear blue eyes. 



Standing on the threshold, 

With light foot and fearless hand, 
As the young knight by his armor 

In minister nave might stand ; 
The fresh red lip just touching 

Youth's ruddy, rapturous wine, 
The eager heart all brave, pure hope, 

Oh, happy child of mine! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

I could guard the helpless infant 

That nestled in my arms ; 
I could save the prattler's golden head 

From petty baby harms ; 
I could brighten childhood's gladness, 

And comfort childhood's tears, 
But I cannot cross the threshold 

With the step of riper years. 



For hopes, and joys, and maiden dreams 

Are waiting for her there, 
Where girlhood's fancies bud and bloom 

In April's golden air ; 
And passionate love, and passionate grief, 

And passionate gladness lie 
Among the crimson flowers that spring 

As youth goes fluttering by. 



Ah! on those rosy pathways 
Is no place for sobered feet ; 

My tired eyes have naught of strength 
Such fervid glow to meet ; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 203 

My voice is all too sad to sound 

Amid the joyous notes 
Of the music that through charmed air 

For opening girlhood floats. 

Yet thorns amid the leaves may lurk, 

And thunder-clouds may lower, 
And death, or change, or falsehood blight 

The jasmine in the bower. 
May God avert the woe, my child ; 

But, oh! should tempest come, 
Remember by the threshold waits 

The patient love of home. 



TITHAT arts for a woman? To hold on her knees 
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her 
throat 
Cling, strangle a little! To sew by degrees, 
And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat! 
To dream and to dote. 

— Mrs. Browning's " Mother and Poet" 



204 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MOTHER, THE STAR OF MY HOME. 

— Eliza Cook. 

f REMEMBER the days when my spirit would turn 
From the fairest of scenes and the sweetest of song, 
When the hearth of the stranger seemed coldly to burn, 
And the moments of pleasure for me were too long ; 
For one name and one form shone in glory and light, 
And lured back from all that might tempt me to 
roam. 
The festal was joyous, but was not so bright 
As the smile of a mother, the star of my home. 

I remember the days when the tear filled my eye, 
And the heaving sob wildly disturbed my young 
breast ; 
But the hand of that loved one the lashes would dry, 
And her soothing voice lull my chafed bosom to 
rest. 
The sharpest of pain and the saddest of woes, 
The darkest, the deepest of shadows might come ; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 205 

But now let me rove the wide world as I may, 

There's no form to arise as a magnet for me ; 
I can rest amid strangers, and laugh with the gay — 

Content with the pathway where'er it may be — 
Let sorrow or pain fling their gloomiest cloud, 

There's no haven to shelter, no beacon to save, 
For the rays that e'er led me are quenched by the 
shroud, 

And the star of my home has gone down in the grave. 



B 



UT one thing on earth is better than a wife, — that 
is a mother. — Leopold Schcefer. 



QUEEN OF THE WORLD. 

nPHE mother in her office, holds the key 

Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin 
Of character, and makes the being who would be a 

savage 
But for her gentle cares, a Christian man ; 
Then crown her queen of the world. 



206 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MEMORIES OF THE OLD KITCHEN. 

— Mrs. S. P. Snow. 

T^AR back in my musings my thoughts have been cast 
To the cot where the hours of my childhood were 
passed. 
I loved all its rooms, to the pantry and hall, 
But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. 
Its chairs and its table none brighter could be, 
For all its surroundings were sacred to me, 
To the nail in the ceiling, the latch on the door ; 
And I loved every knot of that old kitchen floor. 



I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide, 

The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side, 

Out of which, each thanksgiving, came puddings and 

pies, 
That fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes ; 
And then, too, Saint Nicholas, slyly and still, 
Came down every Christmas, our stockings to fill ; 
But the dearest of memories I've laid up in store, 
Is the mother that trod that old kitchen floor. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 207 

Day in and day out, from morning till night, 
Her footsteps were busy, her heart always light ; 
For it seemed to me then that she knew not a care, 
The smile was so gentle her face used to wear. 
I remember with pleasure what joy filled our eyes 
When she told us the stories that children so prize ; 
.They were new every night, though we'd heard them 

before 
From her lips, at the wheel on the old kitchen floor. 

I remember the window where mornings I'd run 
As soon as the day break, to watch for the sun ; 
And I thought, when my head scarcely reached to the 

sill, 
That it slept through the night on the trees on the hill, 
And the small tract of ground that my eyes there 

could view 
Was all of the world that my infancy knew ; 
Indeed, I cared not to know of it more, 
For a world in itself was that old kitchen floor. 



To-night those old visions come back at their will, 
But the wheel and their music forever are still ; 



208 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, 
And the fingers that turned it lie mold'ring in clay ; 
The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as 'twas then, 
And the voices of children ring out there again; 
The sun through the window looks in as of yore, 
But it sees stranger feet on the old kitchen floor. 

I ask not for honor, but this I could crave — 
That when the lips speaking are closed in the grave, 
My children will gather their's round at their side, 
And tell of the mother that long ago died : 
'Twould be more enduring, far dearer to me 
Than inscription on marble or granite could be, 
To have them tell often, as I did of yore, 
Of the mother that trod the old kitchen floor. 



B 



Y the fireside still the light is shining, 
The children's arms around the parents' twining; 
From love so sweet ; O who would roam ? 
Be it ever so homely, home is home. 

— Dinah Muloch Craik. 



A 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 209 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

— Anonymous. 
H! here it is, that dear old place, 



Unchanged through all the years ; 
How like some sweet, familiar face 

My childhood's home appears ; 
The grand old trees beside the door 

Still spread their branches wide ; 
The river wanders as of yore, 

With sweetly murmuring tide ; 
The distant hills look green and gay, 

The flowers are blooming wild, 
And everything looks glad to-day, 

As when I was a child. 



Regardless how the years have flown, 

Half wondering I stand ; 
I catch no fond endearing tone, 

I clasp no friendly hand ; 



2io MOTHER'S LOVE. 

I think my mother's smile to meet, 

I list my father's call, 
I pause to hear my brother's feet 

Come bounding through the hall ; 
But silence all around me reigns, 

A chill creeps through my heart — 
No trace of those I love remains, 

And tears unbidden start. 



What though the sunbeams fall as fair 

What though the budding flowers 
Still shed their fragrance on the air, 

Within life's golden hours ; 
The loving ones that cluster here 

These walls may not restore ; 
Voices that fill my youthful ear 

Will greet my soul no more ; 
And yet I quit the dear old place, 

With slow and lingering tread, 
As when we kiss a clay-cold face 

And leave it with the dead. 



MO THER 'S LOVE. 211 



MOTHERHOOD. 

— Beecher. 

TN the lowest and simplest forms of animal life it is 
the rule that the offspring have no relation to their 
parents, other than physical. There is no love, no 
recognition. The spawn of the fish covers the river 
and the fish knows nothing about it, and they are 
hatched and the fish don't know its offspring except to 
eat it up. As you ascend from the lower forms of 
parentage steadily there seems to be an increment in 
this direction, that the parent and the offspring have 
increasing relations one to the other. Take the birds — 
the fowls of the air and the fowls of the yard. There 
is very strong parental affection, but it is very narrow 
and simple. The hen that clucks round my door every 
day with her brood of fifteen chickens, will quarrel and 
fight as bravely as if she were a lioness if you attack 
them openly ; but if you go in the night and take one 
from her and kill it or give it away, she don't miss it 
in the morning ; and if in the night you go quietly 
and abstract another, she doesn't know she is a bereaved 
mother. And so you may reduce her to one chicken, 



212 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

and she goes on acting as if she had control of the 
whole world. So that you see, while she has strong 
affection in one way, it is so small, so narrow, so 
unrecognizing, that one by one you can diminish her 
household and she doesn't grieve. She misses nothing. 
If you go further up you shall find that when you 
reach the mammals, or those that feed their young 
from their own bosom, a very strong development has 
taken place, bringing them nearer and nearer together. 
Not only is the lioness a lover of her whelp, but she is 
very sagacious about it. Go into the wood and take 
the cubs of a bear, and she will follow your footsteps 
far and near, and woe be to the man that has her young 
in his pouch if she overtakes him. She misses them, 
and mourns them if she can't find them. Take the calf 
away from the cow, and she goes lowing about day by 
day and week by week sometimes. She not only 
loves it while it is present with her — she misses it as 
the bird does not miss its li'ttle one. 

The sphere is enlarged when you reach the human 
family. You begin to find then that the scope of 
parental affection is enriched in variety and immensely 
enlarged. Even in the lowest savage nations the 
mother's love is something that rises superior as an 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 213 

angel in the midst of all the rude and course elements 
of life. 

And as the mind enlarges, so does the scope of 
parental affection and the imagination with which the 
mother engirts, as with bonds of light, the little infant. 
A civilized and a Christian woman! No poet, no phi- 
losopher, can tell what is the richness and fruitfulness 
and wonder of the imagination that hovers over a 
Christian woman at the cradle. To her the star of the 
East comes again to stand even where the young child 
lies. To her the wise men of the earth might well 
come bearing offerings and incense. To her again are 
renewed all the scenes of the sacred stable where the 
child lay. The cradle is her temple ; the babe is her 
divinity, and whatever reason can and whatever fancy 
can, when both of them are stimulated by profoundest 
love — whatever there is near or far, present or to 
come, that love is woman's. " Mary kept these things 
in her heart and pondered them. " The pondering of a 
mother, if it could be written — if there were an angelic 
reportorial hand to take the best thoughts and the 
sweetest fancies, and the life of a mother's heart could be 
written in those early brooding days, it would shine fit 
to be read in the libraries of the heavenly world itself. 



214 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

A mother's love has all the stars of heaven shining at 
night down on it. Serving that little impotence, that 
little possibility of the future, she asks no other reward 
than the joy of service ; she asks nothing ; she can't 
free herself from it. It wins her by the whole strength 
of her nature from pleasure, from honor, from society, 
from all rest, from the glory of the earth ; outwardly, 
from all that has been treasured by the accumulated 
wisdom and refinements of the years. They are nothing 
to her. The sum total of human experience, if it could 
be put together in some shining bauble, would seem to 
her as darkness compared with the luminous joy with 
which she serves the young immortal — her king, her 
little prophet, her little priest, her little god! 

Human nature never comes so near the divine as 
when a royal woman pours out the full blood of her 
thought, and fancy, and love to the little unheeding, and 
to her as yet useless child. Where else is she so beautiful 
as when she sits in the center of this mystic circle, as 
when she sings to her babe or gazes silently as it feeds 
upon her bosom? The stars have nothing so bright, 
and the heavens scarcely anything more pure and more 
lovely, than the heavenly love service of a mother to 
her little one, helpless and unfashioned. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 215 

Look for one single moment upon the power of 
the cradle, for all this love and outflowing of the 
divinest feeling of human nature was not meant to be 
expended merely as a luxury for the maternal bosom — 
there is meaning in it. It is one of the sources of the 
greatest power that exists on earth. The power of the 
cradle is greater than the power of the throne, greater 
than royalty in its diffusion and in its capacity of use- 
fulness — ten thousand times greater. Make me mon- 
arch of the cradles, and I will give to whosoever will 
the monarchy of the kingdoms and of the throne. 




216 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



HOME OF OUR CHILDHOOD. 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

TOME of our childhood! How affection clings 
And hovers round thee with her seraph wings! 
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown, 
Than fairest summits which the cedars crown ; 
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze, 
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas! 
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh, 
For the heart's temple is its own blue sky. 



A MOTHER'S heart, like primroses, opens most beau- 
tifully in the evening of life. 









m^m^m 



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MY MOTHER'S PRAYER. 




3s=3s: 



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I wandered 'round the homestead, Man -y a dear familiar 

2. Tho' the house was held by strangers, All remained the same with- 

3. Quick I drew it from the rubbish, Covered o'er with dust so 




spot, Brought within my rec - ol- lection, Scenes I'd seeming- ly for- 
in, Just as when a child I rambled, Up and down, and out and 
long: When, be-hold! I heard in fan-cy, Strains of one fa- mil-iar 




got/There, the orchard — meadow, yonder — Here the deep, old-fashioned 
in, To the gar -ret dark as- cending, (Once a source of child -ish 
song, Oft - en sung by my dear mother, To me in that trun- die 



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well, With its old moss-covered bucket, Sent a thrill no tongue can tell, 
dread, )Peering thro' the mist- y cobwebs, Lo! I saw my trun - die bed. 
bed.[Omit . . ] 



2d. ending 



:4- ^-^ Fij=jzz^— ^-FJ^g=-.i=SzE^ — y-^=j S~fl 



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See page 233. 



LETTER FROM PHILIP PHILLIPS. 

TT7HEN Philip Phillips wrote giving permission to 
* use " My Mother's Prayer," found on page 233 
of this book, he said : 
" You have my permission to use the hymn from 
' Song Life, as you request. 

" God bless the dear Christian mothers of our land. 
Mine is a sainted one long since gone to glory. 

" But I remember her prayers which have and are 
still blessing me. 

" Yours in faith and song, 

Philip Phillips." 



219 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 



ONE BY ONE. 

HTHEY are gathering home from every land, 

One by one, 
As their weary feet touch the shining strand, 

One by one ; 
Their brows are encased in a golden crown 
And their travel-soiled garments are all laid down, 
And clothed in white raiment they rest on the mead 
Where the Lamb loveth his chosen to lead, 

One by one. 



Before they rest they pass through the strife, 

One by one ; 
Through the river of death they enter life, 

One by one. 
To some the waves of the river are still 
As they ford on their way to the heavenly hill ; 
To some the waters run darkly and wild, 
But all reach the home of the undefiled, 

One by one. 




(D B 

H 



MO THER ' S BE A TIL 

We, too, shall come to the river-side, 

One by one ; 
We are nearer its waters each even-tide, 

One by one. 
We can hear the roar and the dash of the siream 
Ever and again through our life's deep dream ; 
Sometimes the waves all the banks o'erflow, 
Sometimes in light ripples the small waves go, 

One by one. 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 



MOTHER IS DEAD. 

rpREAD softly ! bow the head, 

In reverend silence bow ! 
No passing bell doth toll, 
Yet an immortal soul 

Is passing now. 

O change ! O wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison bars ; 
This moment there — so low 
In mortal prayer — and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

O change ! stupendous change ! 

Here lies the senseless clod ! 
The soul from bondage breaks 
The new immortal wakes — 

Walks with her God ! 

The long watches of the night are over, and she 
is gone ; gone from her earthly home ; gone from the 
society of those she loved ; gone to live with the dear 



MO THER >S DEA TH. 223 

ones " over yonder," and with the angels. She was 
happiest when surrounded by her family and friends, 
but death called and she went away willingly. Part 
of her family had long since gone over, and were 
" waiting and watching " for her ; and when the mes- 
senger came, she was ready to go. 

The night was dark and stormy without, but within 
there was a holy quiet, only disturbed by the heavy 
breathing of a dying mother and the sobs of weeping 
friends. We had watched and waited at her side for 
many long days and nights. We hoped and prayed 
that death might stay his hand and leave her with us ; 
but day after day she seemed to care less for things of 
earth and more for those of heaven. We patiently 
watched and prayed as the weary days and nights wore 
on, but the trial hour came at last, and we assembled 
around her bed to see her die. As she went out across 
the dark river, we tried in broken utterances to sing 01 
the beautiful land, the sweet home of the soul — 

• 

" I will sing you a song of that beautiful land, 

The far away home of the soul, 
Where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand, 

While the years of eternity roll. " 



224 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Death halted not in his onward march, but with 
ruthless tread crushed our hearts, and laid hold on the 
mother that we loved ; and with a whispered good- 
night she fell asleep — 

" Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep, 

From which none ever wake to weep. " 

Morning dawned, but mother did not look upon 
the sunshine. Friends passed in and out, but she saw 
them not. She was shrouded for the grave, but saw 
not her white apparel. We drew back the curtain to 
look upon the calm and quiet face, but she did not 
notice us. We called, but she could not answer. We 
wept bitter tears of grief, but she heeded not our sor- 
row. Then the coffin came, and friendly hands lifted 
the precious dust into the softly cushioned bed. 

" Soon shall we meet again — 

Meet n£'er to sever ; 
Soon will peace wreathe her chain 

Round us forever ; 
Our hearts will then repose 
Secure from worldly woes ; 



MO THER ' S DEA TH. 225 

Our songs of praise shall close — 
Never — no, never." 

One more kiss ; once more let us press those lips 
that never deceived us ; those lips that always spoke 
our name in love. But they are cold and silent now. 
One kiss on those pale cheeks and marble brow. Fare- 
well, mother ; a long farewell — 

" Beyond the flight of time, 

Beyond the reign of death, 
There surely is some blessed clime, 

Where life is not a breath ; 
Nor life's affections transient fire, 
Whose sparks fly upward and expire. 

" There is a world above 

Where parting is unknown, 
A long eternity of love 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here, 
Translated to that glorious sphere." 

And now the coffin is closed and the lid by kindly 
hands is made secure in its place. We turn from this 
scene and look upon the outer world. The fields are 



22b MO THER 'S DEA TH. 

bright and green as ever, perhaps, but to us a gloom 
has settled down on all things earthly. She loved these 
scenes ; loved to watch the sun come up ; to look on 
this beautiful landscape ; to watch the trees moving in 
the wind. But these things will attract her no more. 
She will never look on them again. 

Here comes her pastor. " God bless you," he says, 
" your mother is safe now, safe at last, safe at home, safe 
in heaven. It is well. On the other shore she will be 
' waiting and watching' for you." How often mother 
has directed us to that land that knows no sorrow ; and 
how well we remember her prayers and tears for us in 
other years. The first prayer our infant lips learned to 
utter she taught us to repeat. 

Lift the coffin gently, and carry it carefully. 
Mother goes out from her fondly cherished home never 
to return. From out this door others have gone to the 
grave. She followed them, sadly weeping. How our 
number is growing less ; but few are left, and we, too, 
must soon follow. 

" Thus, star by star declines, 
Till all are passed away, 
As morning high and higher shines, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 227 

To pure and perfect day; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
But hide themselves in heaven's own light. " 

What a lonely road, this, to the grave. Over it 
during the last few years the aged and the young have 
gone. Old age, with its gray hairs; youth in its beauty, 
and childhood in its innocence, have gone this lonely 
way ; but it is mother that is going now. Here are her 
children and her relatives, and her many friends in this 
silent funeral march to the grave. Some day we, too, 
must go this way. Over this road must we be taken 
when we are dead. Friends will follow silently, sadly 
as we follow now, and then we will be laid in the silent 
tomb. Here are the graves. How often dear mother 
has visited this place, and how many tears have fallen 
for those she loved! 

" Now her last labors done, 
Now the grave is won ; 

Oh, Grave, we come ; 
Seal up this precious dust — 
Land of the good and just, 

Take the soul home." 

Farewell, mother; a long, a last, a sad farewell; we 



228 MO THER 'S DEA TH. 

leave thee here to rest. Long and unbroken will be 
this silent slumber. Spring, with its blooming flow- 
ers ; autumn, with its harvest ; and winter, with its 
stormy winds, will come and go, but still wilt thou 
sleep on. Age after age will roll by, and this quiet 
slumber will be unbroken. Time's effacing fingers will 
wear the names from these marbles, and still wilt thou 
sleep on. One by one we too will come and lie down 
by thy side. But when the glorious resurrection morn 
shall come, as come it will, we shall together be caught 
up to meet our Lord in the air, coming in the clouds of 
heaven to gather his people home. Then our love shall 
be renewed again in that far off land of light. 

No chilling winds, nor poisonous breath, 

Can reach that healthful shore ; 
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, 

Are felt and feared no more." 

What a lonely place home- is now. Everything 
about it reminds us of her. Here the room she occu- 
pied, the vines she trained, the garments she wore. 
Home can never be what it once was. Long months and 
years will we miss her who adorned it above all other 



MO THER >S DEA TH. 229 

ornaments. The garden paths, the pictures on the wall, 
the furniture, everything reminds us of mother — 

" There's a land far away mid the stars, we are told, 
Where they know not the sorrows of time. " 

And to that land we will direct our steps ; to that land 
mother has found her way. There they die no more. 
There friends long parted meet again. 

" O ! our sainted mother, we will not deplore you 
as lost, for we are yet one, and shall forever be ; for 
that bond which united us here shall exist in all its 
strength and vigor when the wheels of the universe 
shall stand still ; when every mountain shall have 
fallen, it shall remain unimpaired ; when every law 
whose authority is acknowledged by material nature 
shall have been annulled, this law of love shall be in 
force." When every river has run dry and the sea is 
without a drop ; when the sun and moon have been 
blown out and the last star has burned down; when the 
watch-fires of heaven have all died away and the uni- 
verse has rolled together as a scroll, then this family 
bond shall become immortal and die no more. A few 
more days and time with us will have closed, and the 



230 MO THER >S DEA TH. 

things of earth will have passed away, and we will be 
at home. 

" Only waiting 'till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate, 
At whose feet I long have lingered, 

Weary, poor, and desolate. 
Even now I hear the footsteps, 

And their voices far away; 
If they call me I am waiting, 

Only waiting to obey." 

Hail, ye far off lands of light ! Hail, ye moving 
millions that walk the plains of the New Jerusalem ! 
Hail, all hail ! mother dear, we are coming home. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 231 



MOTHERLESS. 

— Duff Porter. 

TI7HAT is home without a mother ? 

Ah ! surely best they know, 
Where the days' long weary shadows 

Die with no sunset glow ; 
Where the pained ear aches with waiting, 

But hears no answer sweet ; 
Where the eyes grow dim with watching, 

The dear lost face to greet ; 
Where the children meet at twilight, 

Only the darkness dread, 
No soft hand with fond caressing 

To soothe the troubled head ; 
Where no kiss with love's sweet healing, 

In silence of night, 
Like a benediction holy, 

Gives peace 'till morning light. 
Ah ! the dark wide gulf's deep yawning, 

The aching void unfilled ; 
Ah ! the silence drear, unbroken, 



232 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

By her voice never thrilled. 
Ah ! the midnight pall unlifted, 

The presence grim and cold, 
That have filled with gloom the places 

That she made bright of old. 
It is day without its sunshine, 

A June with roses dead ; 
It is summer without harvest, 

But blighted fields instead ; 
It is blackest wing of sorrow, 

Low brooding day by day, 
O'er the heart's most sacred yearning, 

While slow years pass away. 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 233 



MY MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

A SI wandered 'round the homestead, 
Many a dear familiar spot, 
Brought within my recollection, 

Scenes I'd seemingly forgot. 
There, the orchard — meadow yonder — 

Here the deep, old-fashioned well, 
With its old moss-covered bucket, 
Sent a thrill no tongue can tell. 

Though the house was held by strangers, 

All remained the same within, 
Just as when a child I rambled 

Up and down, and out and in ; 
To the garret dark ascending 

(Once a source of childish dread), 
Peering through the misty cobwebs, 

Lo ! I saw my trundle-bed. 

Quick I drew it from the rubbish, 
Covered o'er with dust so long, 



234 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

When, behold, I heard in fancy, 
Strains of one familiar song, 

Often sung by my dear mother 
To me in that trundle-bed : 

" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed. " 

While I listen to the music 

Stealing on in gentle strain, 
I am carried back to childhood — 

I am now a child again ; 
Tis the hour of my retiring, 

At the dusky even-tide ; 
Near my trundle-bed I'm kneeling, 

As in yore, by mother's side. 

Hands are on my head so loving, 

As they were in childhood's days ; 
I, with weary tones, am trying 

To repeat the words she says ; 
'Tis a prayer in language simple 

As a mother's lips can frame : 
" Father, thou who art in heaven, 

Hallowed ever be thy name." 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Prayer is over — to my pillow 

With a good-night kiss I creep, 
Scarcely waking while I whisper, 

" Now I lay me down to sleep." 
Then my mother o'er me bending, 

Prays in earnest words, but mild: 
" Hear my prayer, O heavenly Father, 

Bless, oh bless, my precious child." 

Yet I am but only dreaming, 

Ne'er I'll be a child again, 
Many years has that dear mother, 

In the quiet grave-yard lain ; 
But her blessed, angel spirit 

Daily hovers o'er my head, 
Calling me from earth to heaven, 

Even from my trundle-bed. 



235 



236 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 

— Mrs. Lydia A. Sigoumey. 

ATOU'RE weary, my precious ones ; your eyes 

Are wandering far and wide ; 
Think ye of her who knew so well 

Your tender thoughts to guide! 
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore 

Your fixed attention claim, 
Ah! never from your hearts erase 

That blessed mother's name. 

Tis time to sing your evening hymn, 

My youngest infant dove ; 
Come press your velvet cheek to mine 

And learn the lay of love ; 
My sheltering arms can clasp you all, 

My poor deserted throng ; 
Cling as you used to cling to her, 

Who sings the angel's song. 

Begin, sweet bird, the accustomed strain, 
Come, warble loud and clear, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 237 

Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all, 

You're sobbing in my ear. 
Good-night, go say the prayer she taught 

Beside your little bed ; 
The lips that used to bless you there 

Are silent with the dead. 

A father's hand your course may guide 

Amid the thorns of life, 
His care protect those shrinking plants, 

That dread the storms of strife ; 
But who upon your infant hearts 

Shall like that mother write ? 
Who touch the springs that rule the soul ? 

Dear smitten flock, good-night. 



238 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 

— Bishop Gilbert Haven. 

f\N one of the shelves of my library, surrounded by 
volumes of all kinds, on various subjects and in 
various languages, stands an old book, in its plain cov- 
ering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the eye, and 
apparently out of place among the more pretentious 
volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of the 
stranger it certainly has neither beauty nor comeliness. 
Its covers are worn ; its leaves marred by long use ; its 
pages, once white, have become yellow with age ; yet 
old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beautiful and 
most valuable book on my shelves. No other awakens 
such associations, or so appeals to all that is best and 
noblest within me. It is, or rather it was, my mother's 
Bible — companion of her best and holiest hours, source 
of her unspeakable joy and consolation. It was the 
light to her feet and lamp to her path. It was constantly 
by her side ; and, as her steps tottered in the advance 
pilgrimage of life, and her eyes grew dim with age, more 
and more precious to her became the well-worn pages. 
One morning, just as the stars were fading into the 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 239 

dawn of the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed 
on beyond the stars, and beyond the morning, and en- 
tered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath — to look upon 
the face of him of whom the law and the prophets 
had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. 
And now, no legacy is, to me, more precious than that 
old Bible. Years have passed ; but it stands there on its 
shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that 
is finished. When sometimes, from the cares and con- 
flicts of external life, I come back to the study, weary 
of the world and tired of men, that are so hard and 
selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — and the strings 
of the soul have become untuned and discordant, I seem 
to hear that book saying, as with the well remembered 
tones of a voice long silent, " Let not your heart be 
troubled, for what is your life ? It is even as a vapor." 
Then my troubled spirit becomes calm ; and the little 
world that had grown so great, and so formidable, 
sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful. I am 
strong. 

There is no need to take down the volume from 
the shelf, or to open it. A glance of the eye is 
sufficient. Memory and the law of association sup- 
ply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is 



24.0 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 



otherwise ; hours in life when some deep grief has 
troubled the heart; some darker, heavier cloud is over 
the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is a 
comfort to take down that old Bible and search its 
pages. Then, for a time, the latest editions, the origi- 
nal languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the 
critical apparatus which the scholar gathers around him 
for the study of the Scriptures are laid aside ; and the 
plain old English Bible that was my mother's is taken 
from the shelf. 




"SMS! 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 241 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

William Cowper. 

f\ THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd 

With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smiles I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ; w 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic chain 
To quench it), here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrance of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here! 
Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own! 
And, while that face renews my failing grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 



242 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed! 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch'd even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss ; 
Ah, that maternal smile, it answers, " Yes." 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy funeral day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ; 
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are sounds unknown! 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 

Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of a quick return. 
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 243 

And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd ; 

By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, 

Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child, 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 

I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more, 

Children not thine, have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 

And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, 

Drew me to school along the public way, 

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 

Tis now become a history little known, 

That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 

Short liv'd possession ! but the record fair 

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, 

Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd 

A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 



244 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Thy morning bounties, ere I left my home, 

The biscuit or confectionery plum ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; 

All this, and more endearing still than all, 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 

That humor interpos'd too often makes ; 

All this still legible in mem'ry's page, 

And still to be so to my latest age, 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 

Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, 

When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, 

The violet the pink, and jessamine, 

I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 

Wouldst softly speak and stroke my head, and smile). 

Could those few pleasant days again appear, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 245 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 

I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 

Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might, — 

But no — what here we call our life is such, 

So little to be loved, and thou so much, 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 

(The storms all weathered and the ocean cross'd), 

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, 

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 

While airs impregnated with incense play 

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; 

So thou with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, 

" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." 

And thy lov'd consort on the dangerous tide 

Of life long since has anchored by thy side ; 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 

Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 



246 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course ; 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth, 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell! — Time unrevok'd has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, nor sought in vain, 
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine; 
And while the wings of fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 



247 



BAPTISM OF AN INFANT AT ITS MOTHER'S 
FUNERAL. 

— Mrs. Lydia A. Sigoumey. 

TT THENCE is that trembling of a father's hand, 

Who to the man of God doth bring this babe, 
Asking the seal of Christ ? Why doth the voice 
That uttereth o'er its brow the triune name, 
Falter with sympathy ? And most of all, 
Why is yonder coffin lid a pedestal 
For the baptismal fonts? 

And again I ask — 
But all the answer was those gushing tears 
Which stricken hearts did weep, 

For there she lay — 
The fair young mother in that coffin bed, 
Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat, 
With trembling tenderness to every touch 
Of love, or pity, flushed the cheek no more. 



248 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 

—Eliza Cook. 

LOVE it ! I love it ! and who shall dare 



I 



To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? 
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 
I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs ; 
Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
Would you learn the spell ? A mother sat there ; 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallow seat with listening ear, 

To gentle word, :hat mother would give, 

To fit me re lie ^nd teach me to live : 

She told me shame would never betide 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day, 

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray ; 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 249 

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled, 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped ; 
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled ; 
I learned how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now 

With quivering lip and throbbing brow ; 

'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 

And memory flows with lava tide. 

Say it is folly and deem me weak, 

While the scalding drops steal down my cheek ; 

But I love it ! I love it ! and cannot tear 

My soul from my mother's old arm-chair. 




2JO MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE DYING MOTHER. 

f AY the gem upon my bosom. 

Let me feel the sweet warm breath, 
For a strange chill o'er me passes, 
And I know that it is death. 

I would gaze upon the treasure, 

Scarcely given ere I go ; 
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers 
Wander o'er my cheek of snow. 



I am passing through the waters, 

But a blessed shore appears ; 
Kneel beside me, husband dearest, 
Let me kiss away thy tears. 

Wrestle with thy grief, my husband, 

Strive from midnight until day, 
It may leave an angel's blessing 
When it vanisheth away. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 25: 

Lay the gem upon my bosom, 

Tis not long she can be there ; 
See! how to my heart she nestles, 
'Tis the pearl I love to wear. 

If in after years, beside thee 

Sits another in my chair, 
Though her voice be sweeter music, 
And her face than mine more fair ; 

If a cherub calls thee " father, " 
Far more beautiful than this, 
Love thy first-born, O my husband! 
Turn not from the motherless. 

Tell her sometimes of her mother — 

You can call her by my name : 
Shield her from the winds of sorrow, 
If she errs, O gently blame! 

Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping, 

I will answer if she calls, 
And my breath shall stir her ringlets, 



253 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 



When my voice in blessing falls ; 

Her soft black eye will brighten, 

And wonder whence it came ; 
In her heart when years pass o'er her, 

She will find her mother's name. ' 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 253 



TO MOTHER. 



—Emanuel Vitilas Scherb, from Sivitzerland. 



T^ULL twenty years have passed away, 
(They seem now but a single day), 
Since last I saw thee, mother. 



But I was then a wayward child 
And very young, and very wild, 

Alas! thou knowest it, mother ; 
And high my passions wine did foam, 
I could no longer stay at home, 
I wanted through the world to roam, 

Away from thee, dear mother. 

I knew not then what now I know — 
That through the world, where'er you go, 

You find no second mother ; 
I thought then in my foolish mind, 
With wild romantic notions blind, 
That everywhere I was to find 
Human hearts as warm and kind 



254 M THER ' 6" DEA TH. 

As the one I left behind — 

As thine, thou kindest mother. 



And so I rushed into the world, 
By stormy, fiery passions hurled 

Away from thee, dear mother. 
And on the whirlwind did I ride, 
Without a goal, without a guide, 
Wandering far and wandering wide, 
And always farther from thy side — 

Thy side, my blessed mother. 



I roamed and roamed the world around, 
But what I sought I never found, 

I never found it, mother. 
I sought for nothing more nor less 
Than an ideal happiness, 
Sought Paradise in the wilderness, 

And could not find it, mother. 



I sought a heart, I sought a soul, 
I sought a love intense and whole, 



MO THER ' S DEA TH. 255 

A deathless love, O mother ! 
I sought for glory's stainless shrine, 
I sought for wisdom's drossless mine, 
Sought men and women all divine, 

And never found them, mother. 



And worried by the endless race, 
And sickened by the fruitless chase, 

Old, cold, and faint, O mother ! 
With breaking heart and darkened eye, 
I bade my soring hopes good-by, 
And weary both of earth and sky, 
I laid me down, and yearned to die, 

To die and rest, O mother ! 



But He whose name be ever blest, 
Who loves us more and knows us best, 

Took pity on me, mother ; 
And from his own effulgence bright, 
He sent imparting strength and sight. 
A quickening ray of heavenly light 

And peace — His peace, O mother ! 



250 MO THER ' S DEA TH. 

And now life's stormy days are past, 
My heart at last, at last 

Has found its haven, mother. 
By wild desires no more distrest, 
No passion now can heat my breast, 
Save one which has outlived the rest, 
The earliest, deepest, and the best, 

My love to thee, dear mother. 



But thou hast left this vale of tears, 
And winged thy way to better spheres, 

Far from thy child, O mother \ 
The boundless gratitude I owe, 
The heart's warm love I fain would show, 
The tender care I should bestow, 
My thousand debts of long ago — 
I cannot pay them here below, 

I cannot pay them, mother. 



But thou so gentle, and so mild, 
Thou wilt not spurn thy erring child, 
Thou wilt forgive me, mother. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 257 

Behold the days are running fast, 
I'm with the old already classed, 
Soon will the darksome vail be passed ; 
Then comes the hour, when at last, 
My spirit arms around thee cast, 
I shall repay thee, mother. 



MY MOTHER. 



A LAS, how little do we appreciate a mother's tender- 
ness while living ! How heedless are we in youth 
of all her anxieties and kindness ! But when she is 
dead and gone ; when the cares and coldness of the 
world come withering to our hearts ; when we ex- 
perience how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few 
love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us in our 
misfortunes, then we think of the mother that loved us, 
and to her our hearts turn yearningly. 



258 MO THER >S DEA TH. 



MY TRUNDLE-BED. 

—R. M. Streeter. 

A S I rummaged through the attic, 
Listening to the falling rain 
As it pattered on the shingles 

And against the window pane, — 
Peering over chests and boxes, 

Which with dust were thickly spread, 
Saw I in the farthest corner 

What was once my trundle-bed. 

So I drew it from the recess 

Where it had remained so long, 
Hearing all the while the music 

Of my mother's voice in song, 
As she sung in sweetest accents 

What I since have often read : 
" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber; 

Holy angels guard thy bed. " 

As I listened, recollections 

That I thought had been forgot, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 25$ 

Came with all the gush of memory, 

Rushing, thronging, to the spot ; 
And I wandered back to childhood, 

To those merry days of yore, 
When I knelt beside my mother, 

By this bed upon the floor. 



Then it was with hands so gently 

Placed upon my infant head, 
That she taught my lips to utter 

Carefully the words she said. 
Never can they be forgotten, — 

Deep are they in memory driven: 
" Hallowed be thy name, O Father • 

Father! thou who art in heaven/' 



This she taught me ; then she told me 
Of its import, great and deep ; 

After which I learned to utter, 
" Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Then it was with hands uplifted 
And in accents soft and mild, 



260 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

That my mother — " Our Father, 
Bless, O, bless my precious child!" 

Years have passed, and that dear mother 

Long has slumbered, 'neath the sod, 
And I trust her sainted spirit 

Revels in the home of God. 
But that scene at summer twilight 

Never has from memory fled, 
And it comes in all its freshness 

When I see my trundle-bed. 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 261 



ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER. 

\ T length, then, the tenderest of mothers is gone ; 
Her smiles, her love, accents, can glad thee no 
more ; 
That once cheerful chamber is silent and lone, 
And for thee all a child's precious duties are o'er. 

Her welcome at morning, her blessing at night, 
No longer the crown of thy comforts can be ; 
And the friend seen and loved since thine eyes first saw 
light, 
Thou canst ne'er see again; thou art orphaned like 
me. 



IV /TORE severing of tender cords, and more wounds 
-*■ that never heal, result from the mother's death 
than from any other event that can take place in any 
home. 



262 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

MOTHER'S VACANT CHAIR. 

— T. DeWitt Talmage. 

T GO a little farther on in your house, and I find the 

mother's chair. She had so many cares and 

troubles to soothe that it must have rockers. I remem- 
ber it well. It was an old chair and the rockers were 
almost worn out, for I was the youngest, and the chair 
had rocked the whole family. It made a creaking noise 
as it moved, but there was music in its sound. It was 
just high enough to allow us children to put our heads 
into her lap. That was the bank where we deposited 
all our hurts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was. 
It was different from the father's chair — it was entirely 
different. You ask me fyow? I cannot tell, but we all 
felt it was different. Perhaps there was about this chair 
more gentleness, more tenderness, more grief when we 
had done wrong. When we were wayward father 
scolded, but mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. 
In the sick day of children other chairs could not keep 
awake, that chair always kept awake — kept easily awake. 
That chair knew all the old lullabies, and all those word- 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 263 

less songs which mothers sing to their children. Songs 
in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influ- 
ences are combined. That old chair has stopped rock- 
ing for a good many years. It may be set up in the 
loft or garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. 

When at night you went into the grog-shop to get 
the intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that 
said : " My son, why go in there ?" and louder than the 
boisterous encore of the theatre, a voice saying : " My 
son, what do you here ?" And when you went into the 
house of sin, a voice saying : " What would your 
mother do if she knew you were here ?" and you were 
provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with 
superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with 
your own thoughts, and you went home, and you went 
to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed than a 
voice said : " What a prayerless pillow ?" Man ! what 
is the matter ? This ! You are too near your mother's 
rocking-chair. " Oh, pshaw," you say, " there is noth- 
ing in that. I'm five hundred miles off from where I 
was born. I'm three thousand miles off from the 
Scotch kirk whose bell was the first music I ever 



264 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

heard." I cannot help that. You are too near your 
mother's rocking-chair. " Oh," you say, " there can't 
be anything in that ; that chair has been vacant a 
great while." I cannot help that. It is all the 
mightier for that ; it is omnipotent, that mother's vacant 
chair. It whispers. It speaks. It carols. It mourns. 
It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went 
off and broke a mother's heart, and while he was away 
from home his mother died, and a telegram brought 
the son ; and he came into the room where she lay, 
and looked upon her face and cried : " O, mother, 
mother, mother, what your life could not do your death 
has effected ! This moment I give my heart to God !" 
And he kept his promise. Another victory for the 
vacant chair. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 265 



THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOW- 
STORM. 

— Seba Smith. 

HPHE cold winds swept the mountain's height, 

And pathless was the dreary wild, 
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night, 
A mother wandered with her child ; 
As through the drifting snow she passed, 
Her babe was sleeping on her breast. 



And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on, 

And 'deeper grew the drifting snow ; 

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone ; 

" Oh, God ! " she cried in accents wild, 

" If I must perish, save my child. " 

She stripped her mantle from her breast, 
And bared her bosom to the storm, 

And round the child she wrapped the vest, 
And smiled to think the babe was warm ; 



z66 



MO THER 'S DEA TH. 



With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 
And sunk upon her snowy bed. 

At dawn a traveler went by 

And saw her 'neath a snowy vail, 

The frost of death was in her eye, 

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ; 

He moved the robe from off the child, 

The babe looked up and sweetly smiled. 





IN A SNOW STOH2I. 



-Page 265 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 267 



DEAD MOTHER. 

But when I go 
To my lone bed, I find no mother there ; 
And weeping kneel to say the prayer she taught; 
Or when I read the Bible that she loved, 
Or to her vacant seat in church draw near, 
And think of her, a voice is in my heart, 
Bidding me early seek my God, and love 
My blessed Savior, and that voice is hers ; 
I know it is, because these were the words 
She used to speak so tenderly, with tears, 
At the twilight hour, or when we walked 
In the spring among rejoicing birds, 
Or peaceful talked beside the winter hearth. 



268 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE DEATH-BED. 



— Thomas Hood. 

T17"E watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her being out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 269 



DEATH SCENE. 



-Phebe Carey. 



TWING, still slowly dying, 

As the hours of night rode by ; 
She had lain since the light of sunset 

Was red on the evening sky, 
'Till after the middle watches, 
As we softly near her trod, — 
When her soul from its prison fetters 

Was loosed by the hand of God. 



One moment her pale lips trembled 

With the triumph she might not tell. 
As the sight of the life immortal 

On her spirit's vision fell ; 
Then the look of rapture faded, 

And the beautiful smile was faint, 
As that in some convent picture 

On the face of a dying saint. 

And we felt in the lonesome midnight, 
As we sat by the silent dead, 



270 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

What a light on the path going downward 
The feet of the righteous shed ; 

When we thought with faith unshrinking 
She came to the Jordan's tide, 

And taking the hand of the Savior, 
Went up on the other side. 



LIPS I HAVE KISSED. 

[" IPS I have kiss'd, ye are faded and cold ; 

Hands I have press'd, ye are covered with mold; 
Form I have press'd, thou art crumbling away, 
And soon on thy bosom my breast I will lay. 
Friends of my youth, I have witnessed your bloom; 
Shades of the dead, I have wept at your tomb ; 
Tomb, I have wreaths, I have flowers for thee, 
But who will e'er gather a garland for me? 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 27. 



LINES BY WHITTIER. 

A ND yet, dear heart, remembering thee, 
Am I not richer than of old ? 
Safe in thy immortality, 

What change can reach the wealth I hold, 
Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 

And while in life's late afternoon, 
When cool and long the shadows grow, 

I walk to meet the night that soon 
Shall shape and shadow overflow, 

I cannot feel that thou art far, 
When near at need the angels are ; 

And when the sunset gates unbar, 
Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 

And white against the evening star, 
The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 



272 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



A MOTHER'S DEATH. 

T^VEATH comes an unsought guest to every board, 
and at his spectral bidding some loved one goes 
forth to his mysterious home. 

Time and philosophy may teach resignation unto 
hearts made desolate by his coming; but they can never 
fill the vacancy therein when she that was our mother 
no longer casts a halo about our darkened hearth. 
A mother's place — so loved — so worshiped — once 
empty, must be forever so. A breast once panged by a 
mother's death no medicine can reach with healing. No 
man however scarred, no heart however hardened, can 
forget the gentle being who gave him life. A mother 
is truly our guardian spirit upon earth ; her goodness 
shields and protects; she walks with our infancy, our 
youth and maturing age, ever sheltering us with her 
absorbing love, and expiating our many sins with her 
blessed prayers. And when our mother, with all her 
burden of love, her angelic influence, her saintly care, 
ceases her beauteous life, how much we lose of home 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 273 

of happiness, of heaven, no one can reckon ; for our 
mother was none but ours, and we only can know how 
holy she was, how sacred her memory must ever be. 

But may we now borrow consolation from the 
thought that our loss is heaven's gain ; that surely her 
angel spirit watches over us, erasing with grateful tears 
the records of our sins, and making easy our path to 
her, with blessed and blessing prayers. 



MOTHER'S LOVE CANNOT DIE. 



1\ MOTHER'S love is the purest and the best of any 
love born on earth, and it is as unselfish and un- 
dying as eternity's years. Other loves may die, mother- 
love never will, never can. 



274 MO THER ' S DEA TH. 



THE DYING MOTHER. 

THRESH in our memory, as fresh 

As yesterday, is yet the day she died. 
We gathered round her bed, and bent our knees 
In fervent supplication to the Throne 
Of mercy, and performed our prayers with sighs 
Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks 
Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay 
An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe for heaven. 

The room I well remember, and the bed 
On which she lay ; and all the faces, too, 
That crowded dark and mournfully around. 

But, better still, 
I do remember, and will ne'er forget, 
The dying eye ; that eye alone was bright, 
And brighter grew as nearer death approached. 
" God help my children!" we heard her say, and heard 
No more. The angel of the covenant 
Was come ; and, faithful to his promise, stood 
Prepared to walk with her thro' death's dark vale. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 



275 



And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still, 
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 
With many tears, and closed without a cloud ; 
They set as sets the morning star, which goes 
Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
Obscured among the temples of the sky, 
But melts away into the light of heaven. 

—Pollok. 



'TWILL ALL BE RIGHT IN THE MORNING." 

TT will all be right in the morning, 

I murmured then through the night, 
As I watched her heavily breathing, 

And longed for the coming light. 
It came with its golden sunshine, 

And I turned to my mother's bed, 
To kiss her lips as a welcome, 

But I found my mother dead. 



276 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



TO MY DEAD MOTHER. 

— Otway Curry. 

QLEEP on, the cold and heavy hand 

Of death has stilled thy gentle breast ; 
No rude sound of this stormy land 

Shall mar thy peaceful rest ; 
Undying grandeur round thee close 
To count the years of thy repose. 

A day of the far years will break 

On every sea, and every shore 
In whose bright morning thou shalt wake, 

And rise to sleep no more — 
No more to molder in the gloom 
And coldness of the weary tomb. 

I saw thy fleeting life decay, 

Even as a frail and withering flower, 

And vainly strove to while away 
Its swiftly closing hour ; 

It came with many a thronging thought 

Of anguish ne'er again forgot. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 277 

In life's fond dreams I have no part — 

No share in its resounding glee ; 
The musings of my weary heart 

Are in the grave with thee ; 
There have been bitter tears of mine 
Above that lowly bed of thine. 

It seems to my fond memory now 

As it had been but yesterday; 
When I was but a child, and thou 

Didst cheer me in my play ; 
And in the evening still and lone 
Didst lull me with thy music's tone. 

And when the twilight hours began, 

And shining constellations came, 
Thou bid'st me know each nightly sun 

And con its ancient name ; 
For thou hast learned their love and light 
With watching in the tranquil night. 

And then, when leaning on thy knee, 
I saw them in their grandeur rise, 



27e MO THER ' S DEA TH. 

It was a joy in sooth to me ; 

But now the starry skies 
Seem holier grown, and doubly fair, 
Since thou art with the angels there. 

The stream of life with hurrying flow, 
Its course may bear me swiftly thro' ; 

I grieve not, for I soon shall go, 
And by thy side renew 

The love which here for thee I bore, 

And never leave thy presence more. 



MOTHER-LOVE UNDYING. 

TTTHEN rolling years shall cease to move, when the 
days of all men have been numbered, and when 
the earth shall have wandered away through space and 
been lost, mother-love will still live on as undying as 
the throne of God. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 279 



ON DREAMING OF MY MOTHER. 

QTAY, gentle shadow of my mother, stay ; 

Thy form but seldom comes to bless my sleep. 
Ye faithless slumbers, flee not thus away 

And leave my wistless eyes to wake and weep. 
Oh ! I was dreaming of those golden days, 

When," Will" my guide, and " Pleasure" all my aim, 
I rambled wild through childhood's flowery maze, 

And knew of sorrow scarcely by her name. 
Those scenes are fled, — and thou, alas, are fled, 

Light of my heart and guardian of my youth, 
Then come no more to slumbering fancy's bed, 

To aggravate the pangs of waking truth ; 
Or if kind sleep these visions will restore, 

O let me sleep again and never waken more ! 

■ — LittelPs Living Age. 



280 MO THER 'S DBA TH. 



RECOLLECTIONS. 

TT was thirty years since my mother's death, when, 
after a long absence from my native village, I stood 
beside the sacred mound beneath which I saw her 
buried. Since that mournful period a great change 
had come over me. My childish years had passed 
away, and with them my youthful character. The 
world was altered, too ; and as I stood at my mother's 
grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same 
thoughtless creature whose cheeks she had so often 
kissed in an excess of tenderness. 

But the varied events of thirty years had not 
effaced the remembrance of that mother's smiles. It 
seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday, as if the 
blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was yet in 
my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood 
were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that, had 
it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed 



MO THER ' S DEA TH. 28 1 

would have been gentle and refreshing. The circum- 
stance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it 
now pains my heart. 

My mother had been ill a long time, and I became 
so accustomed to her pale face and weak voice that I 
was not frightened by them, as children usually are. 
At first, it is true, I sobbed violently ; but when day 
after day I returned from school and found her the 
same, I began to believe that she would always be 
spared to me ; but they told me she would die. 

One day when I had lost my place in the class, and 
had done my work wrong, I came home discouraged 
and fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was 
paler than usual, but met me with the same gentle 
smile that always welcomed my return. Alas ! when I 
look back through the lapse of thirty years, I think my 
heart must have been stone not to have been melted by 
it. She requested me to go down stairs and bring her 
a drink of water. I pettishly asked why she did not 
call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach 
which I shall never forget if I lived to be a hundred 



282 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

years old, she said : " Will not my child bring a drink 
of water to her poor sick mother ?" 

I went and brought the water, but I did not do it 
kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing her, as I was 
wont to do, I set the water down quickly and left the 
room. After playing about for a short time I went to 
bed without bidding my mother good-night. But when 
alone in my room in darkness, and in silence, I remem- 
bered how pale she looked when she said : " Will not 
my child bring her mother a drink of water ?" I could 
not sleep. I stole into her room to ask forgiveness. 
She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they told me 
I must not waken her. I did not tell any one what 
troubled me, but stole back to my room, resolved to 
rise early in the morning and tell her how sorry I was 
for my conduct. 

The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and 
hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's 
chamber. She was dead ! When I touched the hand 
that used to rest upon my head in blessings, it was so 
cold that it made me start. I bowed down by her side 
and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought 



MO THER 'S DEA TH. 283 

then I wished to die and be buried with her ; and old 
as I now am, that event is one of the bitterest recol- 
lections of my life; and while I live, I shall never cease 
to regret it. When I think of mother; when I think 
of her death, of her grave, or of her home in heaven, 
this careless, thoughtless, and cruel conduct of mine is 
always present. No act of mine has given me so 
much pain. 

—Anonymous. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE DEATH OF EVE. 

— George Waterman, J. 

'HP WAS evening tide. The fiery charioteer 

Who guides the courses of the king of day, 
Had urged his ascent up the azure space 
Which links the orient with the distant west, 
Until his burning wheels a moment paused 
Upon its utmost height. A moment more, 
And the descending archway mirrored forth 
The brilliant glories of the irradiant king ! 
And now, before he reached the utmost bound 
Which severs day from night, he paused again 
And cast a lingering look on scenes behind. 
Beneath a bower, near Eden's eastern gate, 
Around whose leafy side in festoon hung 
The richest, sweetest flowers of orient birth, 
Reclined the dying mother of mankind. 
The constant partner of her every joy, 
And (since that fatal day, when perfect bliss 
Fled their polluted bower and sped his way 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 285 

To holier scenes beneath the throne of God) 

The constant partner of her every woe, 

Beside her knelt. Her children, too, were there ; 

Not all, for one was not. Long since his voice 

Had ceased to mingle with their pious song, 

As with the fading light of evening sky 

They offered up their joyous notes of praise 

To Him who rules the skies. One other still 

Was absent from that lonely group, which thus 

In silence gathered round the mossy couch, 

To view a sight on earth unseen before — 

A mother's dying hour. . That other one 

Now roamed a stranger to that holy peace 

Which springs from pardoned sin, with Heaven's broad 

seal 
Of reprobation on him. 

Some ere this 
Had gazed upon the pallid corpse of him 
Whose blood was by an elder brother shed ; 
Then nature, tremblingly, stood aghast ; and God, 
Before whose face a murdered brother's blood 
For retribution cried, in anger spoke, 



286 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

And midst the gloom his vengeful powers displayed. 
Now all was calm. Serene the sun declined, 
And naught except the breeze's silken hand 
Disturbed the ringlets on her fainting brow ; 
But soon a trembling seized that gentle form — 
A trembling passed through every nerve and limb 
Unwonted paleness sat upon her face, 
And shortened breath spoke dissolution nigh. 

"Companion of my life," at length she said, 
" The hour is come. The oft-lamented doom, 
Which by my guilt we both incurred, now waits 
Its consummation. Speak to me, once more, 
Forgiveness of the rash and dreadful deed 
Which exiled us from Eden's blissful shades 
To wander here and reap the bitter fruit 
Of our rebellious act. " Sudden she ceased ; 
For thought of joys for disobedience lost, 
And pain and death by her own hand incurred ; 
And more, the hatefulness of sin itself, 
Her utterance sealed. A look of tenderest love 
From Adam's moistened eye, her sorrows calmed, 
While from around full many a tear bespoke 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 287 

The strength and tenderness of filial love. 

" My children," she resumed, " you too have heard 

The tragic tale of Eden's shameful fall. 

'Tis woeful for a mother thus to name 

The sad inheritance she leaves to those 

She holds most dear. For you I still must grieve ; 

Yet weep not thus for me. Even now 

A shining seraph, from above, like those 

We often saw amid the flowery walks 

Of Paradise, whispers into my ear, 

In accents sweet, of endless joy above, 

And bids me look on-high. There Abel lives ; 

And drest in robes of spotless innocence, 

Before the Golden Throne adoring bends. 

With him a convoy of celestial ones 

Comes to attend my parting soul above, 

Where sin is known no more. 

" Hark! they draw near! 
I see them now! Softly! they beckon me 
To join their song — a song so sweet, like that 
They sung when erst they saw Creation's work 
Wrought and complete. But hark! a single voice 



288 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

And one well known, I hear. Tis Abel's voice! 
And with a sweet-toned harp alone he sings 
A song unheard by all the heavenly choirs — 
The wonders of redeeming love! That song 
My voice shall join. Behold, the Blest Supreme 
Extends a golden harp and bids me come! 
Then quickly all farewell. 'Twill not be long ; 
For soon you, too, will join me there. Farewell! " 
While thus she spoke, the solemn group had knelt 
Around her sylvan couch, with listening ear, 
To catch her every word. But when her voice, 
Which seemed new-tuned to join the blissful song, 
Pronounced that word " farewell, " her eyes stood fix'd, 
Reflecting, like some gentle sleeping lake, 
The silver beams of evening light ; and when 
The throbbing breast and quivering lips were stilled — 
And smiles which faded, not illumed the cheek, 
As though the soul had left upon that face 
The impress of its joy — then first to cry 
Of anguish deep bespoke the heart-felt grief; 
And mingled tears bedew'd that lovely form 
Forever stilled in death. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 289 

THE OLD HOME WITHOUT MOTHER. 

— Albert Barns. 

TT makes a sad desolation when from a happy home 
a mother is taken away, and when, whatever may 

be the sorrows or successes of life, she is to greet the 
returning son or daughter no more. The home of our 
childhood may be still lovely. The family mansion — 
the green fields — the running stream — the moss-cov- 
ered well — the trees — the lawn — the rose — the sweet 
brier may be there. Perchance, too, there may be an 
aged father, with venerable locks, sitting in his lone- 
liness, with everything to command respect and love ; 
but she is not there. The mother has been borne forth 
to sleep by the side of her children who went before 
her, and the place is not what it was. 

There may be those there whom we much love, 
but she is not there. We may have formed new rela- 
tions in life, tender and strong as they can be ; we may 
have another home, dear to us as was the home of our 
childhood, where there is all in affection, kindness, and 
religion to make us happy, but that home is not what 



290 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

it was, and it will never be what it was again. It is a 
loosening of one of the cords which bound us to earth, 
designed to prepare us for our eternal flight from 
everything dear here below. 



f IFE is real, life is earnest, 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
Was not spoken of the soul. 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 291 



MY MOTHER. 



-Mrs. Helen C. Smith. 



,r PIS more than twenty years ago, in autumn cold 

and gray, 
My gentle mother closed her eyes and passed from 

earth away. 
Her wasted form, her pallid cheek, her sweet, angelic 

smile, 
Told us that death was hovering near, though ingering 

for awhile ; 
But on that morning, while the stars paled in the light 

of day, 
Amid the tears that vainly sought the dreaded hand 

to stay, 
He bore her happy spirit hence across the swelling tide, 
And half the light went out from home the hour my 

mother died. 



My youthful days have long since flown to the return- 
less shore, 
Yet oft in thought I live again those early seasons o'er; 



292 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

My mother's calm and patient face, methinks I see it 

now, 
Her cheerful smile, the lines of care that marked her 

thoughtful brow; 
Her loving eyes still look on me through parting mists 

of years, 
Her gentle voice still comforts me when I am bowed in 

tears ; 
I seem to see her form again, as once at close of day 
She stood within the open door and watched her child 

at play. 



And often in the dreams of night her cherished face I 

see, 
And 'mid the old familiar scenes once more I seem 

to be ; 
Once more her hand is on my head, once more her 

voice I hear 
Singing the hymns of other days, to memory ever dear. 
How often in the summer morn that voice rose clear 

and sweet 
In praise to God, while I, a child, followed her busy 

feet. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 293 

My mother's voice ! Fond memory can no richer 

treasure bring, 
No songs are half so sweet to me as those she used to 

sins:. 



No tales so well remembered are as those rehearsed to 

me, 
A happy, trusting little child beside my mother's knee ; 
Of all the gentle, loving words with which my life was 

blest, 
My own dear mother's were to me the wisest and the 

best. 
Yet oft as I look backward o'er the long, long waste of 

years, 
My heart is filled with sudden pain, my eyes grow dim 

with tears, 
As I recall with vain regret and many a secret smart, 
How oft, in times of way wardness, I grieved her tender 

heart. 



My mother, when I think of all thy self- forgetting 
zeal, 



294 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

That sought another's grief to share, another's woes to 

heal ; 
The little shining deeds of love the world not often 

sees, 
Ah me ! I cannot count the worth of blessings such as 

these! 
But still in fadeless memories they are treasured every 

one, 
Those little golden threads of life her hands so deftly 

spun ; 
And often as in reverie they come again to mind, 
I would that I might leave as rich a heritage behind. 



AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

TTfHEN I think of my mother, how tender and lov- 
ing she always was to me, I am ashamed and 
humiliated that I am not a better man ; and when I 
visit her grave, I never fail to renew my vows of faith- 
fulness to her instructions and to Heaven. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 295 



SHE IS DYING ! 

QHE is dying ! Big, cold drops are gathering 

On her forehead, smooth and high, 
And a more than earthly light is beaming 

In her wild and brilliant eye. 
'Neath the ringer beats her pulse as lightly 

As a feather swayed by air ; 
And as cold as winter's snowy shrouding 

Are her hands so thin and fair. 

She is dying ! Ope the western window 

Wide, and let the sunset ray 
Greet once more on earth her fading vision, 

Ere her spirit pass away. 
Let her breathe the pure sweet air of heaven ; 

Let her hear the wild bird's song — 
Quickly bring some water cool and limpid, 

Moist her parched lips and tongue. 

She is dying ! Loved ones are bending 
O'er her pale and wasted form ; 



396 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

One her icy hand is fondly pressing; 

Tears of grief are gushing warm. 
Now her bloodless lips are trem'lous moving — = 

Brighter grows her brilliant eye — 
Ears are bent to catch the broken whisper 

Of her long and last good-by. 

She is dying ! See the smile of rapture 

Playing on her pallid face ; 
Bright, seraphic forms are waiting — 

Soon she'll feel their sweet embrace. 
It is finished ! Death's dread struggle's over ; 

Homeward has the spirit fled ; 
Cold and lifeless in the arms of the dread monstc 

Lies the mother — she is dead. 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 



297 



MEMORIES OF MOTHER. 

n^HERE is something in sickness that breaks down 
the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and 
brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that 
has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and 
despondency ; who that has pined in a weary bed, in 
the neglect and loneliness of a strange land, but has 
thought of the mother that looked on his childhood, 
that smoothed his pillow and administered to his help- 
lessness? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the 
love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other 
affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by 
selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by 
worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will 
sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will 
surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will 
glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity: — and, 
if misfortune overtake him, he will be dearer to her 
for his misfortune. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 



MY MOTHER'S WHEEL. 

TN the shadows creeping o'er 
Narrow pane and attic floor, 
Stands a wheel with mold'ring band, 
Turned no more by foot or hand: 
Dust upon it deeply lies, 
Tiny specks that cloud the eyes ; 
Over it the spiders spin 
Daylight out and evening in. 

As I sit beside it now, 
Weary heart and aching brow, 
Years go backward as the tide 
From the silver seasons glide. 
Life again is passing fair, 
Sunshine glints my face and hair, 
And a simple child I kneel 
Happy by this little wheel. 

Once again I hear its hum, 
While the moments go and come ; 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 299 

See the tireless fingers hold 
Finest threads like shining gold ; 
Busy till the sunset red, 
Till the last faint beam is fled ! 
Spinning all the livelong day, 
Hours of pain and joy away. 

Faithful hands that toiled so long, 
Lips that sung my cradle song, 
Come and hush my sighs once more, 
Lighten burdens as before ! 
Softly through the silent room 
Floats a brightness through the gloom, 
While her presence seems to steal 
Back to me beside this wheel. 



A WOMAN strong and firm to do the right, 

Who with the old-time martyrs might have stood, 

Yet full of sympathy with every mood, 

In time of trouble cheery, still and bright. 

— G. Wet her ly. 



3<do MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE PATHOS OF LIFE. 

A PROFOUND thinker, after investigating the other 
religions of the world, past and present, will dis- 
cover that it is the pathetic side of Christianity which 
gives it the strange stamp of divinity. Therein lies its 
power of deepening and broadening the emotional 
nature of mankind and womankind, and rendering 
them noble and progressive. It is, also, the pathos of 
the soul which tells best of its immortality. Nothing 
could be more pathetic than the last request of the late 
Governor Wiltz, of Louisiana. " Stand in the sunlight 
that I may look on you as I die ! " said he. And the 
weeping wife left his bedside, and, with the light pour- 
ing in upon her face and form, was the last object on 
which the eyes of the dying man rested. 

An incident occurred in Jersey City not long since, 
which must bring something more than sympathy to 
the eyes of sensitive people. Twenty years since the 
husband of a poor woman entered the army as a soldier 
in the late civil war, but was not heard of again. Dur-. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 301 

ing all that time she had supported herself by manual 
labor of a severe character, and accumulated over four 
hundred dollars, when she died. Her death was sup- 
posed to have been caused by sudden illness, and, when 
found by her neighbors, her eyes were stonily fixed on 
the clothes of her baby, which she had treasured since 
her husband departed for the battlefield. She had 
prepared to die, and made herself a shroud in which 
she robed herself, and spread on a chair at the head 
of her bed were a white veil and garments supposed to 
have been used by her when a bride. A portrait of 
her baby was found in a chest, along with the clothing 
of a tiny being some two years old. She had laid the 
chest open so she could see them, and thus contentedly 
resigned herself to death. 



A mother's love ! it is a gleam 
^ Of sacred light, 
That makes the world an Eden seem- 

— Mrs. Gardner. 



308 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



MY MOTHER KNELT IN PRAYER. 



— Thomas M c Keller- 



/^VNCE in my boyhood's gladsome day, 

My spirits light as air, 
I wandered to a lonely room 
Where mother knelt in prayer. 

Her hands were clasped in fervency, 
Her lips gave forth no sound ; 

Yet, awe-struck, solemnly I felt. 
I stood on holy ground. 

My mother, all-entranced in prayer, 

My presence heeded not ; 
And reverently I turned away 

In silence from the spot. 

An orphan wanderer, far from home 

In after-time I strayed ; 
But God has kept me, and I feel 

He heard her when she prayed. 







m, 






<*6\ *©!• 



Iff 




She sleeps, she sleeps T 
And never more 
Will her footsteps fail hy the old home door. 



THE HOLY GRAVE. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

— C. C. Woods, D. D. 

I stood alone, 
About me softly fell the shadows gray. 
The west that late had flushed with rosy tints 
Now ashen grew as fled the sun afar 
Like maiden who with paling cheek beholds 
Her love depart. 

Alone, yet not alone ; 
The evergreen a kindly welcome waved, 
The rose-tree nodded as endowed with life 
And pity. The gentle breath of eve 
Fell on my heated brow as with 
A mother's loving kiss enriched. 
The marble white on which I leaned 
Had gazed upon the sun until a warmth 
Had touched its heart. 

It brought no chill 
To thrill along my nerves and tell 
Of depths below. So tender was the hour, 
305 



3 o6 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

A gentle peace descended on my heart 
And holy memories filled my eyes with tears. 
Then through the mist that sorrow sent 
I read the legend carved upon the stone, 
It came from Holy Writ, and fitting 'twas 
The Word she loved so well should serve 
As epitaph : 

" Her children rise 
And call her blessed ; her husband also, and 
He praiseth her. " 

The device on the stone, 
Two hands in farewell clasp, with " Till 
We meet again," as if the passing spirit 
Whispered back to one to whom she gave 
In girlhood sweet, the priceless trust, 
A woman's heart. * * * And he was dead. 
Then mused I, with a thrill of tender joy, 
" Bring chisel and remove that word which tells 
Of time : Leave only hands in greeting joined 
And ' We meet again ; ' for they have met 
No more to sorrow o'er the ills 
Of earth, or hand in hand to tread the path 




A HOLY GRAVE. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 307 

Of pilgrims through the vale of tears ; 
But with new youth and fonder love endowed 
To hold sweet converse through the rosy hours 
Of that eternal day. " 

The light of sun 
Was long since gone, and darkness grew apace, 
Yet in my heart a light diviner fell — 
The dust beneath me, though so holy, was 
But dust — my mother was not there ; 
But safe with God and dear ones gone before. 
Not there ; yet will that lowly grave 
Be Mecca to my wandering feet until 
I cross the river dark, and tread 
The shining way. 




308 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

TRIBUTE TO A MOTHER. 

— Lord Macaulay. 

/^HILDREN, look in those eyes, listen to that dear 
voice, notice the feeling of even a single touch 
that is bestowed upon you by that gentle hand ; make 
much of it while you have that most precious of all 
gifts, a loving mother. Read the unfathomable love of 
those eyes, the anxiety in that tone and look, however 
slight your pain. In after life you may have friends, 
fond, dear friends ; but never will you have again the 
inexpressible love and gentleness lavished upon you 
which none but a mother bestows. Often do I sigh in 
my struggles with the dark, uncaring world for the 
sweet, deep security I felt when, of an evening nestling 
in her bosom, I listened to some quiet tale suited to my 
age, read in her tender and untiring voice. Never can 
I forget the sweet glances cast upon me when I ap- 
peared asleep ; never her kiss of peace at night. Years 
have passed away since we laid her beside my father in 
the old church-yard, and still her voice whispers from 
the grave, and her eye watches over me, as I visit spots 
long since hallowed to the memory of my mother. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 309 



MY MOTHER. 



TV TY mother ! long, long years have passed 

Since half in wonder, half in dread, 
I looked upon thy clay-cold face, 

And heard the whisper — " She is dead." 

The memory of thine earthly form 
Is dim as a remembered dream ; 

But year by year more close to mine 
Doth thy celestial spirit seem. 

When by the mouldering stone I stood, 
Which marks the spot where thou art laid, 

And with the daisies on the sod, 
My little child in gladness played. 

Oh, how my. spirit longed to know 
If from the heights of heavenly joy, 

The love that watched my infant years, 
Looked down to bless my bright-eyed boy. 



3 io MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



" SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY. 

TN an old church-yard stood a stone 

Weather-marked and stained ; 
The hand of time had crumbled it, 

So only part remained. 
Upon one side I could just trace, 

" In memory of our mother ; " 
An epitaph which spoke of home 

Was chiseled on the other. 

I've gazed on monuments of fame, 

High towering to the skies ; 
I've seen the sculptured marble stone 

Where a great hero lies ; 
But by this epitaph I paused 

And read it o'er and o'er, 
For I had never seen inscribed 

Such words as these before. 

" She always made home happy. " What 

A noble record left ; 
A legacy of memory sweet 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 31* 

To those she loved, bereft ; 
And what a testimony given 

By those who knew her best, 
Engraven on this plain rude stone 

That marked their mother's rest. 



So when was stilled her weary heart, 

Folded her hands so white, 
And she was carried from the home 

She'd always made so bright. 
Her children raised a monument 

That money could not buy, 
As witness of a noble life, 

Whose record is on-high. 

A noble life, but written not 
In any book of fame ; 

Among the list of noted ones 
None ever saw her name ; 

For only her own household knew 
The victories she had won, 

And none but they could testify- 
How well her work was done. 



312 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

— M. C. Henderson. 

^HE grave of my mother is on an elevation that 
overlooks a beautiful village where many an hour 
was spent in study and recreation in days of boyhood. 
A marble slab marks the place where we laid her to 
rest, nearly a score of years ago. Occasionally during 
these years have we stood by her grave, while precious 
remembrances have crowded upon our mind, and the 
sweet hope of meeting again cheered our sad hearts 
burdened with care and the responsibilities of life, and 
our home far away ; but a mother's grave, with all the 
hallowed associations clustering around, can never be 
forgotten. 

The grave of a mother is indeed a sacred spot. It 
may be retired from the noise of business, and un- 
noticed by the stranger, but to our hearts so dear. The 
love we bear to a mother is not measured by years, is 
not annihilated by distance, nor forgotten when she 
sleeps in dust. Marks of age may appear in our homes, 
and on our persons, but the memory of a mother is 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 313 

more enduring than time itself. Who has stood by the 
grave of a mother and not remembered her pleasant 
smiles, kind words, earnest prayers, and assurances 
expressed in a dying hour. Many years may have 
passed away, memory may be treacherous in other 
things, but will reproduce with freshness the impres- 
sions once made by a mother's influence. Why may 
we not linger where rests all that was earthly of a 
sainted mother? It may have a restraining influence 
upon the wayward, prove a valuable incentive to 
increased faithfulness, encourage hope in the hour of 
depression, and give fresh inspiration in Christian life. 



314 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



OVER MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

f LOVE to stay where my mother sleeps, 

And gaze on each star as it twinkling peeps, 
Through the bending willow which lonely weeps 
Over my mother's grave. 

I love to kneel on the green turf there, 
Afar from the scenes of my daily care, 
And breathe to my Savior my evening prayer 
Over my mother's grave. 

I will remember how oft she led, 
And knelt me by her as with God she plead, 
That I might be his when the sod was spread 
Over my mother's grave. 

I love to think how 'neath the ground, 
She slumbers in death as a captive bound ; 
But she'll slumber no more at the trumpet sound 
Over my mother's grave. 

— Apples of Gold. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 315 



MEDITATIONS. 

Once more the grave is opened, 
The coffin and the shroud * * * 
Prepared, and the dead laid out for burial. Swift 
And sudden came the blow, and the freed spirit 
Took its heavenward flight, and rested with its God. 

Grief is dumb, and 
Sympathy is silent here. None but children know — 
Thy children, mother; their hearts alone can tell 
Thy worth, thy love; thy tender watchfulness. 
Long years of care and fond endearment, and kind words 
Of excellent instruction, have firm enstamped 
On memoiy's tablet what no words can tell, and 
What sorrow in her silent depths, at the sad loss, 
Alone can know. Oh, mother, mother, thou art gone; 
The hearth thy presence honored now is lone 
And desolate. Tears are here, and the sable robes 
Of mourning through these halls glide gloomily, for 
Thou, our joy, our love, our dear, dear mother, art not. 
Oh, we see thee now as in past happier times 



316 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

We saw thee, as with that old worn Bible on thy knees 
Thou didst read its living pages, and gather thence 
Its truths divine and heavenly sweets. We hear thy 
Kind words of teaching from its pure Oracles, 
And tell thy warm desire that we might find its hopes 
Our hopes, its Faith, as thine, our chiefest stay. Mother, 
Tell us — Do bright spirits know each face in heaven ? 
Do they mingle hearts which once on earth were joined? 
Do they speak of earthly meeting, and bring past joys 
To mind ? Oh, then we'll part with thee with chastened 

hearts, 
For thou art there, and we will cherish all thy words, 
And meet thee in the skies in high and heavenly 
Converse, to part not forever, ever more. 

— Lewellyn. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 317 

AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

— jfames Aldrich. 

TN beauty lingers on the hills 

The death smile of the dying day, 
And twilight in my heart instills 

The softness of its ray. 
I watch the river's peaceful flow 

Here standing by my mother's grave, 
And feel my dreams of glory go, 

Like weeds upon its struggling wave. 

God gives us ministers of love 

Which we regard not, being near, 
Death takes them from us — then we feel 

That angels have been with us here! 
As mother, sister, friend, or wife, 

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain ; 
And when the grave has closed between 

Our hearts and theirs, we love in vain. 

Would, mother, thou couldst hear me tell 
How oft, amid my brief career, 



318 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

For sins and follies loved too well 
Hath fallen the free repentant tear ; 

And in my waywardness of youth, 
How bitter thoughts have given to me 

Contempt for error, love for truth, 
Mid sweet remembrances of thee. 



The harvest of my youth is done, 

And manhood come with all its cares, 
Finds garnered up within my heart 

For every flower a thousand tears. 
Dear mother, couldst thou know my thoughts, 

Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine, 
The depths of feeling in my heart, 

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine, 



r PHERE is a calm for those who weep, 

A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
They softly lie and sweetly sleep, 
Low in the ground. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 319 



WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

— George D. Prentice. 

T^HE trembling dew-drops fall 

Upon the opening flowers like souls at rest; 
The stars shine gloriously, and all 
Save me are blest. 

Mother, I love thy grave, 

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, 
Waves o'er thy head ; when shall it wave 

Above thy child ? 

Tis a sweet, sweet flower, yet must 

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow ; 

Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem ; dust 
Is on thy brow. 

And I could love to die ; 

To leave untasted life's dark bitter streams — 
By thee, as erst in childhood lie, 

And share thy dreams. 



320 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

But I must linger here 

To stain the plumage of my sinless years, 
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear, 

With bitter tears. 



Aye, I must linger here, 

A lonely branch upon a withered tree, 
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, 

Went down with thee. 



Oft from life's withered bower, 

In still communion with the past, I turn 
And muse on thee, the only flower 

In memory's urn. 

Where is thy spirit flown ? 

I gaze above — thy look is imaged there ; 
I listen — and thy gentle tone 

Is on the air. 



O, come while here I press 

My brow upon thy grave ; and in those mild 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 321 

And thrilling tones of tenderness, 
Bless, bless thy child ! 

And when the evening pale 

Bows, like a mourner on the dim blue wave > 
I stay to hear the night winds wail 

Around thy grave. 



ALONE. 

WAS forty years old when mother died, was mar- 
ried, and she had nursed my children ; but I never 
felt more alone in the world than when I turned away 
from her new-made grave. 



322 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



SHE SLEEPS. 

— Sarah K. Bolton. 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the morning light 
Disperses the shadows of solemn night, 
When dew-drops are gleaming on leaf and spray, 
When blossoms are wooing the new-dorn day ; 
When bright birds are singing o'er hill and glen — 

Will she wake, will she speak 

To her loved ones then ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the day-beam dies 
In the crimson and gold of the evening skies, 
When the south wind whispereth low and sweet ; 
When the starlight comes with its silvery feet ; 
When night brings rest to the homes of men — 

Will she wake, will she speak 

To her loved ones then ? 



She sleeps, she sleeps ! 
When the gentle spring 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 323 

Returns from its southland wandering ; 
When the breezes sing and the children play; 
When the reapers scatter the new-mown hay; 
When they gather the sheaves of the golden grain — 

Will she wake, will she come 

To her home again? 



She sleeps, she sleeps! 

When the chilly winds 
Shake the yellow leaves from the withered vines ; 
When the autumn moon is full and red ; 
When the birds are gone and the flowers are dead ; 
When the frost on the sward lies deep and hoar — 

Will she wake, will she come 

To her home once more? 



She sleeps, she sleeps! 

When they meet at night 
In the cheerful glow of the home-fire's light ; 
When the wintry winds are wild and high ; 
When clouds are black in the cold gray sky; 
When her husband's brow is pale with care — 



324 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



Will she wake, will she come 
To her dear ones there? 



She sleeps, she sleeps! 

And never more 
Will her footsteps fall by the old home door, 
Nor her voice be heard with its loving tone 
By the lone ones left round her own hearth-stone, 
She has gone, she has gone to her home afar — 

To the beautiful land 

Where the angels are. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 325 



NEARER THEE. 

A f OTHER ! dear mother ! the feelings nurst 

As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first ; 
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 
Tis the only one that will long remain ; 
And as year by year and day by day 
Some friend still trusted drops away, 
Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see 
How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee. 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 

TTER hands are cold ; her face is white 
No more her pulses come and go ! 

Her eyes are shut to life and light — 
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, 
And lay her where the violets blow. 



326 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



MEDITATIONS AT THE GRAVE. 

1\ IfY departed mother once visited with me this 
lonely place, and thought and felt as I do now 
as she looked upon the graves of others ; but sickness 
came — death came — and the funeral obsequies ; and 
here now she reposes until wakened by the voice of the 
Son of God. Mortal — all are mortal ; I will not thrust 
you from my mind, ye thoughts of frailty, for ye are 
messengers come from Heaven's high throne, to assist in 
binding my fleeting life to that which is immutable and 
eternal. I know, I feel, I too must die ! True, this 
world is bright and beautiful, and it wearies me not ; 
health flows through my veins and glows in my cheek; 
strength nerves my arms, and strong are the pulsations 
of my heart ; my business, my family, and the many 
objects I wish to accomplish do press and clamor for 
death's delay; but he, the inexorable King of Terror, 
heeds not their voice, but disdains their entreaties. 
Death is coming ; he has been approaching me year by 
year, and day by day. The passing hours, and min- 




—Page 326. 



MEDITATIONS. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 327 

utes, and seconds tell me as they fly that he is coming 
nearer. With an eagle's eye he holds me in view, and 
with a lion's heart he follows upon my path; in the city- 
or in the forest, by land or by sea, by night or by day, 
he never falters nor wearies. 0,yes, I feel as I gaze upon 
yonder setting sun, that I have one day less — and now 
that gorgeous glow upon the mountain-top vanishes, 
and dies away in the starlit heavens — yes, one hour less 
to live, since I came here to commune with my mother, 
and with the dead. Yes, my last sickness will come — 
my physician will be calm and silent, he will breathe no 
word of hope — my wife and children will weep around my 
bed — through the rooms with which I have been famil- 
iar for many years, it will be whispered, " He is dying! " 
and I will see the shadow of him who has so long pur- 
sued me fall upon my path — and I shall feel his skele- 
ton hands clutch my heart-strings, while his icy em- 
braces freeze my blood, and the tide of life stands still. 
Then it will be whispered through the house: " It is all 
over, he is dead ! " All still — only the sobs of weeping 
loved ones will echo through that chamber where I 
bowed to the bidding of death. Cold and insensible 



328 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

shall I lie, while the vigils of friendship shall be 
kept for the last night that I shall ever spend in my 
long and fondly-cherished home. And the morning 
light of another day will break, but I shall not welcome 
its coming. The chirping of the swallows and notes of 
the robin and thrush will not ravish my ears. The 
beautiful landscape, over which my eyes wandered with 
so much delight in early morn, will not be surveyed by 
me. Friends will gather around me, and draw aside 
the curtains to let in the light of day, that they may 
look upon my face, but I will not know them. They 
will caress and kiss the lifeless form, but my heart will 
not thrill under the pressure of affection's hand, nor 
my lips throw back the glow of friendship's kiss. No ; 
I shall be dead! They will shroud me for my burial, 
but I shall not behold my white apparel. They will lay 
me in the coffin, and I shall offer no resistance. My 
familiar friends will gaze upon me there, but I shall not 
return their look. And those whom I most loved will 
give their last long look, and I am then shut out from the 
world in which I have lived and moved. Gently is the 
lid laid over my face, and screwed fast. Neighbors and 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 329 

friends are gathered, and I am carried out of my house, 
never more to return. Even my name will pass from 
it, and strangers will dwell there. The funeral cortege 
will move sadly away from those ancient trees, and over 
that familiar road to this silent abode of the dead. And 
here they will lay me in the grave as they did my 
mother, by whose tomb I write. And the man of God 
will utter the solemn but hopeful words, " We commit 
this body to the ground — earth to earth, ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust — in hope of the general resurrection and 

the life of the world to come. " 

And, having performed this last sad office, they will 
return to their homes and leave me. I shall be alone 
in the grave ; alone shall I slumber. Strangers will 
read my brief history, which the hand of friendship 
may chronicle upon the marble, and then turn away 
with a sigh, and say, " Such is the end of man. " Those 
in whose memories I may live will often come to strew 
flowers over my grave, and drop a tear of affection. 
They will plant the rose, the lily, and the evergreen, as 
emblems of a fragrant and beautiful immortality which 
they assign me in the Paradise of God. All this will 



33° 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



take place with me — yes, all may say with me. Ah ! 
it is a solemn thought, that every step brings us nearer 
to the grave; a solemn thought that there is but one 
passage to eternity, and that lies through " death's iron 
gate." For — 

" Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul ! 
What a strange moment must it be, when near 
Thy journey's end thou hast the gulf in view ! 
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd, 
To tell what's doing on the other side !" 




MOTHER'S GRAVE. 331 



MOTHER. 



— Mary Mafies Dodge. 



"T^ARLY one summer morning, 

I saw two children pass, 
Their footsteps slow, yet lithesome, 

Scarce bent the tender grass. 
One lately out of babyhood 

Looked up wjth eager eyes ; 
The other watched her wistfully, 

Oppressed with smothered sighs. 
" See, mother," cried the little one, 

" I gathered them for you, 
The sweetest flowers and lilies, — 

And Mabel has some too." 
" Hush, Nellie," whispered Mabel, 

" We have not reached it yet, 
Wait till we get there, my darling, 

It isn't far, my pet." 
" Get where?" asked Nellie, " tell me." 

" To the church-yard," Mabel said. 



332 MOTHER'S GRAf-E. 

" No! no!" cried little Nellie, 

And shook her sunny head. 
Still Mabel whispered sadly, 

" We must take them to the grave, 
Come, darling ;" and the childish /oice 

Tried to be clear and brave, 
But Nellie still kept calling 

Far up into the blue: 
" See, mother, see how pretty! 

We gathered them for you." 

And when her sister pleaded, 
And cried and would not go — 

" Angels don't live in church-yards, 
My mother don't, I know." 

Then Mabel bent and kissed her, 
" So be it, dear," she said, 

" We'll take them to the arbor 
And lay them there, instead, 

For mother loved it dearly, 
It was the sweetest place ! " 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 333 

And the joy that came to Nellie 
Shone up in Mabel's face. 

I saw them turn and follow 

A path with blossoms bright 
Until the nodding branches 

Concealed them from my sight. 
But still, like sweetest music, 

The words came ringing through : 
" See, mother, see how pretty ! 

We gathered them for you. " 



334 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



AT THE SEPULCHRE. ' 

TOW faded and dead that rose seems. But a few 
days since and it was one of the most beautiful 

that grew here. It came out early in the spring, and 
from the day it first commenced to bloom, it has been 
my favorite and pet. I have watered and nursed it, 
day after day, and have watched its wide leaves unfold- 
ing themselves with a more than ordinary interest. I 
love flowers dearly, and the more when they are so very 
beautiful. I love, too, to pluck and carry them to those 
whose hearts are warm in sympathy with mine. This, 
I think, is a fitting place for them to bloom, and here 
their tender language is doubly sweet. How beautiful 
that red rose ; its language is that of love. And how 
appropriate ; for none but our best, and most sacred, 
and loving emotions are awakened when we are here. 
Here the ordinary difficulties of life are forgotten, and 
we feel that we are walking among the dead. Here we 
come to cultivate the feelings of tender regard for those 
who sleep in these silent sepulchres. Here friends and 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 335 

enemies lie side by side, and no discordant note dis- 
turbs the stillness of their long, long sleep. Here, too, 
the rose, in all its crimson hues, blooms out above 
them, filling the air with its fragrance, and lifting its 
tender arms up toward that land where love reigns 
supreme. But this one, this withered one, that I have 
loved and cherished so much, it has wilted, and the cold 
chilling winds of death have paled its crimson leaves. 
So fade and die those we love most and dearest. 
Early in the spring-time, its parent stem, reaching up, 
twined its tiny fingers about the branches of this little 
bush, where, see, it still clings. When the flower com- 
menced to unfold its pretty leaves, I was so delighted 
with their beauty, that I have ever since watched and 
nourished it with cherished feelings of love and tender- 
ness ; not for the evenness of its color, but for the 
beauty of its zigzag capillaries that ran promiscuously 
through its leaves, and for the fresh life with which it 
was clothed. But it has withered, and its drooping 
head leans down toward the homes of the dead. Yes- 
terday it was bright and beautiful; but when this morn- 
ing's sun came up, it wilted, and drooped, and died- 



336 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

Ah, how soon the most lovely objects of earth fly away. 
To-day, the youth is full of life and health, his cheek 
blooms as the rose, and he plans for years to come; but 
to-morrow, the fell destroyer lays his withering hand 
upon him, and he fades and dies, as has this rose. How 
true that life's joys are fleeting, and that we have no 
abiding city here. But there is a land where we shall 
gather flowers that will not fade, and where our friends 
shall die no more. 

Many times have we visited this beautiful place, 
and watered and watched these flowers as they have 
unfolded above mother's grave, and the graves of the 
little children buried from her home. Here mother 
sleeps in holy quiet, while these flowers bloom over her 
silent abode. Here, too, is Dottie's grave, the child 
over whom she wept bitter tears, and at whose grave 
she planted flowers that still bloom as the summers 
come and go. 

Yonder is a sister's, and there a brother's grave ; 
and all around are the graves of our neighbors — those 
we knew and loved in years long gone ; and here by 
mother's side is a vacant place for us. When she died 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 337 

it was her request that we be buried by her side. 
Some time a grave will be dug here, and we will be 
brought and buried low in the ground. Then loved 
ones will plant flowers over us, and water them ; 
and, perhaps, care for them as we care for these. 
Friends will visit these grounds, and as they pass my 
grave, will linger for a while and talk of me and of my 
life's work. They will speak of the book I am now 
writing, of my mother, and of the love I cherished for 
her, and of how lonely life was to me when she was 
gone ; they will talk of those buried near me here, and, 
perhaps, of the want of care about my grave, and then 
pass on. My children will gather flowers, and scatter 
them over my grave ; and talk of how I suffered before 
I died, and how I loved them, and tried to care for 
them, and provide for them. They will speak of the 
last few days of my life, of the physician who attended 
me in my last illness, and of those who were present 
when I died. How strange it will be when my hands 
are folded across my breast and I am laid in a coffin, 
and buried here in this cold ground, where no one can 
ever look on me again. Dear mother, speak to me ; tell 



338 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

me how it seems to be covered up in the grave ? My 
heart is crushed in sadness, and I long for one word ; 
one token that will inspire my languid hope. Mother, 
speak to me! But, alas! I know that mother cannot 
speak, and so will it be with me some time. I will be' 
buried here ; I will be shut up in a coffin and lowered 
in the ground, and the man of God will say, " Dust to 
dust and ashes to ashes." I will be left deep down in 
the dreadful grave, the clods will be tumbled in on top 
of me, and I will sleep that sleep that knows no wak- 
ing. Dear me, how awful the thought! How will I 
escape ? Where can I fly away so that this frightful 
fate may not be mine ? What can I do that I may not 
die and be buried ? Oh, the cold and cruel grave! 
But, alas, I must come here, and be buried in the 
ground! May my mother's God help me to meet this 
fate with courage ; that I may die as she died, full of 
faith and hope. 

" That awful day will surely come, 
The appointed hour makes haste 
When I must stand before my Judge, 
And pass the solemn test." 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 339 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

-Mrs. Felicia Hema?is, 

Come nearer! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your mother and embrace her now 

In still and solemn trust! 
Come nearer! — once more let kindred lips be pressed 
On her cold cheek ; then bear her to her rest! 

Yet weep, and it is well ; 
For tears befit earth's partings! — Yesterday 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er she moved — the welcome and the blessed ;- 
Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest. 

Look yet upon her, whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth! 
Was she not fair amid the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die? — 



340 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

But now where death has power, may love be blessed; 
Come near, and bear ye the beloved to rest. 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quenched! — for her the past 
Is sealed. She may not fall, she may not cast 

Her brightest hope away ; 
All is not here of our beloved and blessed — 
Leave ye the sleeper with her God to rest. 



r pHOU angel spirit, who so oft didst sing 

My infant cares to sleep upon thy breast, 
Let me but hear the rustling of thy wing, 
Around thy child its guardian influence fling! 
Oh, come thou from the islands of the blest, 
And bear my weary soul up to thy sainted rest! 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 34* 



DEATH AND FUNERAL. 

n^HEN died lamented in the strength of life 

A valued mother. 
All her ties the strong invader broke, , 

In all their strength, in one tremendous stroke ; 
Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, 
And terror grew till every hope was gone. 

Slowly they bore with solemn steps the dead, 
When grief grew loud, and bitter tears were shed. 

We left her in the silent grave alone, 
The mother we shall never cease to moan. 

Arrived at home, how then we gazed around, 

In every place where she no more was found ; 

The seat at table she was won't to fill ; 

The fireside chair, still set, but vacant still ; 

The garden-walks, a labor of her own ; 

The lattice bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown ; 

The Sunday pew she filled with all her race ; — 



342 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

Each place of hers was now a sacred place, 
That, while it called up sorrows in the eyes, 
Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise. 

Oh, sacred sorrow by whom souls are tried, 
Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide ; 
Still let me feel for what the pangs are sent, 
And be my guide, and not my punishment. 



IV TY stricken heart to Jesus yields 

Love's deep devotion now ; 
Adores and blesses — while it bleeds 
His hand that strikes the blow. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 343 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

/^OME unto the church-yard near, 

Where the gentle whispering breeze 
Softly rustleth through the trees ; 
Where the moonbeam pure and white, 
Falls in floods of cloudless light, 
Bathing many a turfy heap 
Where the lowlier slumberers sleep ; 
And the graceful willow waves, 
Banner-like, o'er many graves ; 
Here hath prayers arisen like dews, — - 
Here the earth is holy, too ; 
Lightly press each grassy mound ; 
Surely, this is hallowed ground: 



344 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



HEART-THROBS. 

— F. R. Anspack. 

T7TSITS to the places where our departed repose are 
prompted by the instincts of humanity and the 
suggestions of love. They have been withdrawn from 
those circles which their presence made glad. Their 
voices mingle no mon in the hymn of praise which 
rises a'round the family altar; they are not of the num- 
ber which meet around the cheerful hearth, and in their 
retirement they claim from us an occasional visit to 
their graves. The remotest period in my history to 
which memory points is when, about five years of age, 
I was alone in the green lawn that stretches out before 
the home of my childhood, calling my sainted mother, 
and wondering why she did not answer my call and 
hasten to my side. And, Avere it permitted, would she 
not have withdrawn herself from her angel companions 
and winged her flight to the presence of her lonely 
child ? Yea, I know not but that she was present with 
rci*-., and her gentle spirit may have held my thoughts 
in (Tmmijni^n with her. It is a beautiful and consoling 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 345 

thought, and one certainly not in conflict with, but 
rather encouraged by, the teachings of inspiration, that 
we have our guardian angels to accompany us through 
life ; to minister to us in a way we know not ; yet 
defending us from the assaults of the tempter, and 
bearing us safely through the dangers which encompass 
the road in which we travel. God promised to Israel 
that his angel should guide and guard them through 
all their wanderings. And by whom, among the armies 
of those spirits around Jehovah's throne, would the 
office to guard and guide us be more fondly accepted, 
and more faithfully executed, than by those who have 
been removed from us, but who still love us? 

The doctrine concerning guardian angels, though 
perhaps not as clearly revealed as many others, yet has 
its foundation in that universality of belief which 
clothes any dogma with something of a divine sanc- 
tion. It may be regarded as belonging to that class of 
truths which enter into all creeds, because they have 
never been questioned, but always received the cheerful 
assent of the hearts and minds of all men. The Jews 
firmly believed that it was the prerogative of each one to 



346 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

be accompanied by an angel, whose office was to shield 
them from those destructive influences, physical and 
moral, by which they were surrounded. And the be- 
lief in guardian angels is equally general among 
Christians. And if the idea were even imaginary, and 
possessed nothr-rt-g real in itself, it would still be well to 
cherish the belief for the sake of the influence which 
this persuasion exerts upon the mind. For by a law of 
nature, as powerful as it is sure in its operations, man 
becomes gradually identified with the feelings and sen- 
timents of his companions, until he is altogether assim- 
ilated to their character. If we are continually asso- 
ciated with persons whose minds are cultivated, and 
whose characters are adorned with lofty virtues, we 
will perhaps imperceptibly, yet steadily, rise to that in- 
tellectual and moral elevation which they occupy, and 
ultimately be conscious of a perfect harmony of senti- 
ment, of taste and disposition with those who have at- 
tracted and molded our spirits into the image of their 
own. And in view of these results which the law of 
intercourse invariably produces, the persuasion of at- 
tendant spirits will necessarily exert an elevating and 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 347 

purifying influence upon us. Our intellectual and 
moral exercises will partake of the dignity and 
sanctity which are peculiar to those of angelic beings. 
And if to this we add the consideration that among 
those invisible ministers commissioned to guard us, 
there is one whom we fondly cherish; a sainted mother 
moving with us through this busy and bustling world ; 
hovering about our path by sea or by land, by day or by 
night, in public and in private, a spectator of all our 
actions and a witness of all our ways; will not this con- 
viction be a sleepless prompter to virtue, and a constant 
monitor to warn us against vice? Will not the felt 
nearness of some such beloved spirit animate us in 
every good work, and make us strong in every conflict? 
Is it at the grave of a beloved .mother where we 
stand? My mother! O, what a world of thought, 
what an ocean of bliss there is in this holy word ! 
Yes, here sleeps my mother. She who forgot the 
anguish of her soul in her joy that I was born. She 
whose eyes were held waking over my infancy, when 
all others slumbered but the eye above. She whose 
love rendered her perceptions so keen and far-sighted 



348 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

that she perceived and guarded me against dangers 
while they were yet distant. She who quieted my 
feeble cries on her gentle bosom. She who first bent 
over me in devout supplications. She whose last words 
were words of blessing, and whose angel spirit, as it rose 
from that couch of suffering to eternal mansions, shook 
from its wings the incense of prayer upon my head. 
Blessed holy one who lived in her child. Rejoiced when 
I was happy; was in anguish when I was pained. The 
first to know and to relieve my sorrows. The first to be 
interested in my childish prattle, and to guide my tot- 
tering footsteps. Dear departed one! shall I not here 
recall thy watchful care and unwearied love, and thank 
the Good Being who gave me such a treasure in thee? 
Such thoughts and feelings are fitting at such a place 
where a mother sleeps, and becoming those who can ap- 
preciate a mother's affection. For who that has en- 
joyed her care, and received her instructions, may not 
breathe out his soul in sentiments such as shine in the 
poem of Cowper, on the receipt of his mothers 
portrait? — 

" My mother! manhood's anxious brow 
And sterner cares have long been mine. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 349 

Yet turn I to thee fondly now, 

As when upon thy bosom's shrine 
My infant griefs were gently hushed to rest, 
And thy low whisper'd prayers my slumber blest 
I've por'd o'er many a yellow page 

Of ancient wisdom, and have won, 
Perchance, a scholar's name — but sage 

Or bard have never taught thy son 
Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth, 
As those his mother's faith shed on his youth. " 

But, perhaps some of my readers may have had 
the misfortune, like the writer of these pages, to lose 
their mother before they could know her, or appreciate 
her worth. And O, what reflections are those of 
which we are conscious at her tomb ! If we could but 
recall her image, or the accents of her voice, or the 
thrilling touch of a mother's caresses ! Alas ! all this 
is denied to some, and there is nothing left to tell them 
how she looked ; for there were few pencils then 
employed to transfer the image of the living upon the 
canvas, and the sunbeam had not then learned to 
engrave likenesses upon the polished plate. Did I say 
there was nothing left to assist the imagination in the 
creation of her image ? O, yes ; every virtue which 



350 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

brightens our character was warmed into life by her 
love. For, although the seeds of those virtues which 
adorn our characters are divine, because they came 
from heaven, yet were they planted by a mother's 
hand and watered by a mother's tears ; and they have 
matured in our lives, because the eye of a covenant- 
keeping God rested upon her prayers, as chronicled in 
His book. O my beloved, my sainted mother ! Though 
1 never looked upon thy face to know thee ; though not 
conscious at the time that it was the music of thy 
throbbing heart that lulled me into peaceful slumbers ; 
though unknown to the sense of my sight, my spirit 
knows thee, and no human heart has ever thrilled with 
a holier love than mine for thee ! Yet again shall I be 
folded in thy embrace ; for thy tomb reminds me that 
I am mortal, and thy prayers have prevailed with God, 
for thy son is on his pilgrimage to Zion ; and when 
weary and wayworn on my journey, the thought that I 
shall know thee in heaven as my mother, animates me 
with new strength, and I press onwards to oui" blessed 
home on-high. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



351 



THE REPOSE OF THE HOLY DEAD. 

'T^HERE is no place where Christianity glows with 
such a divine lustre, and where its consolations 
are so precious and sublime, as at the grave where we 
commit a cherished one to rest. Its hopes loom out 
upon the gloom that oppresses the heart there as the 
sun when it bursts full-orbed through the dark storm- 
clouds which obscure the canopy of heaven. However 
much we may have pondered the mysteries of the 
gospel and appreciated its lessons, we can never under- 
stand its priceless value so fully as when its light bursts 
through our clouds of dark calamity, and spans them 
with the bow of promise, as its rays are reflected by our 
tears. We may have often heard and read the blessed 
announcement " that Christ brought life and immor- 
tality to light, " but there we feel it. We may have ad- 
mired that charming promise, " When thou goest 
through the waters I will be with thee, and through 
the rivers they shall not overflow thee ; when thou 
walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burnt, 
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the 



5>, MOTHER'S GRAVE 

Lord, thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Savior." 
But, ineffably more precious did we find this promise 
in our deep afflictions, when our souls felt the conscious 
presence and support of the everlasting arms under- 
neath us. As the rose gives out its most delicious fra- 
grance when it is crushed, so do the promises of God 
breathe their healing balm most effectually when pressed 
upon hearts broken with sorrow. 



SAINTLY SYMPATHY. 

T17HEN once we close our eyes in death, 

And flesh and spirit sever ; 
When earth, and fatherland, and home, 
With all their, beauty, sink in gloom — 
Say, will it be forever? 

Will we, in heaven, no more review 

Those scenes from which we sever? 
Or will our recollections leap 
O'er death's dark gulf, at times, to keep 
With earth acquaintance ever? 




1HE VOICE FROM OVER THE RIVER. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. ' 353 



THE VOICE FROM OVER THE RIVER 

— Li Hie E. Barr 

"POME back," we cry, and through the silent place 

Of our bereaved homes, the echoes fall ; 
But yet returns no fair and shadowy face, 
In answer to our passionate recall. 



Come back," we cry, and o'er the river coH 
Send sore beseechings to the other shore ; 
And a sweet voice, heard from the days most old, 
Makes answer thus, " They will return no more. 

" Never again ! The long and bitter strife 

Of the Eternal out of Time is o'er ; 
They have a fairer and a purer life. 

Call not the dead ; they will return no more. " 

" What comfort then ? " " That thou be patient here, 
In service faithful, in complainings dumb . 

Then, o'er this river some day I shall hear 

Thy voice command — ' Go tell my dead I come.'' " 



354 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



NO HOME. 

T17HEN the honeysuckles bloom, 

And the wrens flutter o'er 
Their nest in the vine, 

As they have for years before, 
My heart flutters o'er 

A long-deserted nest, 
And cries out for home — 

Home and the rest. 

When wild roses shed their leaves 

O'er the rocks with moss o'ergrown, 
And I think of the summers 

That over them have flown, 
My heart would be a rose, 

To scatter, year by year, 
Its petals o'er the rock, 

Changeless and drear. 

When the night winds in the pines 
Sing their songs of the sea, 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 355 

And I seem to be rocked 

As my mother rocked me, 
And dream I am lying 

Below the ground-bird's nest, 
With the pines above me sighing, 

In dreamless rest — 

Tis sweet to know a home 

Awaits me, so still, 
'Neath shadows of leaves, 

On a breeze-haunted hill. 
There my mother's ashes lie, 

There on Mother Earth's breast, 
My heart will find a home — 

Home and rest. 



QHE was my friend — I had but her — no morq 

No other upon earth — and as for heaven, 
I am as they that seek a sign, to whom 
No sign is given. My mother ! Oh, my mother ! 



356 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



" REQUIESCAT IN PACE." 

Sleep here in peace ! 
To earth's kind bosom do we tearful take thee , 
No mortal sound from rest again shall wake thee ; 
No fever-thirst, no grief that needs assuaging, 
No tempest-burst above thy head loud-raging. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
No more thou'lt know the sun's glad morning shining ; 
No more the glory of the day's declining ; 
No more the night that stoops serene above thee, 
Watching thy rest like tender eyes that love thee 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
Unknown to thee the spring will come with blessing, 
The turf above thee in soft verdure dressing ! 
Unknown will come the autumn rich and mellow, 
Sprinkling thy couch with foliage golden yellow. 

Sleep here in peace ! 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 357 

Sleep here in peace! 
This is earth's rest for all her broken-hearted. 
Where she has garnered up our dear departed; 
The prattling babe, the wife, the old man hoary, 
The tired of human life, the crowned with glory. 

Sleep here in peace! 

Sleep here in peace! 
This is the gate for thee to walk immortal ; 
This is the entrance to the pearly portal, 
The pathway trod by saints and sages olden, 
Whose feet shall walk Jerusalem the golden. 

Sleep here in peace! 

Sleep here in peace! 
Fear not on earth shall be man's rest eternal ; 
Faith's morn shall come. Each setting sun diurnal, 
Each human sleeping and each human waking, 
Hastens the day that shall on earth be breaking. 

Sleep here in peace! 

Sleep here in peace! 
Faith's morn shall come when He, our Lord and Maker, 
Shall claim his ov/n that slumber in God's acre ; 



358 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

When He who once for man death's anguish tasted, 
Shall show death's gloomy realm despoiled and wasted. 
Sleep here in peace! 



TT may be autumn, yea, winter, with the woman — 
but with the mother, as a mother, it is always 
spring. — Rev. Thomas Cobbett, 1665. 



THINK it must somewhere be written that the vir- 
tues of mothers shall, occasionally, be visited on 
their children, as well as the sins of the fathers. " 

— Dickens. 



TER office then, to rear, to teach> 

Becoming as is meet and fit, 

A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each. 

— Tennyson. 






^^({}©tSep 9 g loffls 1 ^ 



h E>eauGH. 



i 










" I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold, 

And list to the sound of the boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the snowy sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before ; 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The angel of death shall carry me. " 









360 



THE ANGEL OF THE HOUSE. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOR 

Susan E. Wallace {Mrs. Gen. Lew. It-,, face). 

T 7AIN is any attempt to measure the loss of a mother 

to her little children ; after all the poets have 

sung and lovers dreamed, outside of heaven there is 

no love like mother-love. We believe the tender care 

devoted to those nearest and dearest, went with her to 

the better land, and in the possibilities of eternity, may 

be needed hereafter. We fancy her awaiting them in 

the place prepared for her, a little apart from the 

innumerable company in bright array ; perhaps in one 

of the 

" palaces of ivory, 

Its windows crystal clear," 

of which old Bonar quaintly sung. In the light, not 

of the sun, neither of the moon, we see her beyond 

the fields of fadeless asphodel, under the waving 

palms, beside the still waters bordered with silver 

lilies. These may be merely figures, but they bear a 

precious meaning to yearning hearts made for the deep 

household loves ; hearts that will not be comforted 

because the Angel of the House is missing. 

361 



362 MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

OUR FUTURE HOME. 

; TEAVEN is the central point of the universe of 
God. If we are allowed to reason from analogy 
on a subject like this, we might make out more than a 
plausible or probable proof. If we examine any thing 
that is systematically arranged, we shall discover that 
it contains some controlling principle or power, which 
governs the entire structure ; so that every system has 
a central point to which all that forms a part of it 
tends. It is to the center of the earth that all the things 
within the range of our atmosphere gravitate. And 
in like manner all the planetary systems have their 
central suns, around which they perform their revolu- 
tions. And if so, is it not a warrantable conclusion, 
that God, whose controlling energy fills the universe, 
has chosen the center of his vast dominions as his own 
appropriate residence, where he will perpetually reside 
with all his saints ? The opinion certainly commends 
itself to our judgment, and also falls in with the gor- 
geous imagery of Scripture, which throws an ineffable 
splendor around the abode of the righteous. But if we 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 363 

are left to conjecture in regard to the particular location 
of that " house of many mansions," prepared for the 
redeemed, we are not left in doubt as to the nature and 
employments of the place. 

And here I would remark, that we have abundant 
reason to believe, from the many declarations of Scrip- 
ture as to the appearance and structure of the place, 
that it is invested with a lofty physical grandeur. Ad- 
mitting that it is a place, and keeping in view the 
object for which it was provided, and the resources and 
skill of the Architect of the structure, we would natur- 
ally conceive it to be possessed of exalted excellence. 
The monarch who wields the sceptre of earthly empire, 
does not make his largest expenditures upon the im- 
provement of his provinces and cities farthest from the 
seat of royalty; on the contrary, the style and structure 
of his palace, and the adornments of the imperial city, 
will share more largely in his munificence than any 
other portions of his dominions. The place where the 
powers of government reside, and the interests of state 
are shaped, is generally made attractive, and in most 
instances honored with higher decorations than any 



364 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

other. Ax\d is it not our privilege to believe that the 
home which the Ruler of the universe has fitted up for 
his children, will be clothed with a more excellent glory 
than any other part of His dominions? Such an infer- 
ence is not more natural than we believe it to be just ; 
for the imagery which inspiration employs to represent 
Heaven, is always of a glowing character. Our Savior 
himself speaks of it under the idea of a vast structure 
containing many apartments. " In my Father's house 
are many mansions ; it it were not so, I would have 
told you. I go to prepare a place for you." And if he 
who fashioned the heavens and the earth has fitted up 
that abode, will it not correspond with the character of 
his other works? And are not all his creations beauti- 
ful? There is a beauty in the winged cloud and in the 
circling wave! There is a beauty in the setting sun, 
and in the dawn of day ! There is beauty i 1 the 
warbling streamlet and its spotted tribes! There is 
beauty in the forest, in the field, in the dew-drop, and 
in the ocean! Look out upon the earth, and see! is 
it not beautiful, though it rests under the curse? With 
what a ravishing glory does it roll forth to our view, 



MO THE J? ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 365 

clothed in that rich and varied robe which nature puts 
on in spring. Behold the. mountains and continents, 
rivers and seas, all are arrayed with a grandeur that 
delights and charms the observer. But if the glorious 
Maker of all things has given so many visible displays 
of his power and goodness, and clothed with glory the 
sun, the moon, and the stars, and covered the whole 
creation with so many visible beauties, may we not rest 
confidently assured that the home of his chosen ones is 
invested with a transcendent glory? His own presence 
will make it glorious beyond conception. For while 
his glory beams from every star, and shines in every 
sun, and is sung in every anthem of nature, all the 
brightness, goodness, and excellence scattered through 
the universe are only rays or emanations which have 
gone out from him, as the infinite center of all that is 
lovely and glorious. 

The physical glory of the place may also be 
inferred from the names by which it is known. Heaven 
is called the Paradise of God. The Eden where Adam 
and Eve dwelt when garnished with a rare excellence. 
A garden watered by four rivers, adorned with flowers 



366 MO THE/? 'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

and fountain-s, and peopled with every object that 
could excite pleasurable emotions ; and yet it was only 
an emblem of our future home. The apostle John de- 
scribes the New Jerusalem as a city built of the most 
costly materials. " Its foundations were garnished 
with all manner of precious stones, and with walls of 
jasper. " " A city of pure gold, and with gates of solid 
pearls. "' " And the glory of the nations was brought 
into it." " And a river of water clear as crystal flow- 
ing from the throne of God. " " And in the midst 
of the street thereof, and on either side of the river, was 
there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of 
fruits, and yielded her fruit every month ; and the leaves 
thereof were for the healing of the nations. " " And 
there shall be no night there." And thus also, in all 
the other inspired books where heaven is spoken of, do 
we find it represented under the most brilliant emblems. 
The material creation is laid under contribution for 
images descriptive of the physical grandeur of that 
blessed abode. And who can doubt that the most sub- 
lime and gorgeous figures will fall short of the reality? 
Nay, its blessedness and glory will far transcend even 



MO THE/? ' J 1 HOME IN HE A VEN. 367 

the high-wrought imagery of Inspiration. For how- 
ever well-conceived and graphic any representation of 
it may be, the figure is but a shadow, and can never 
rise to a full conception of the object which it is de- 
signed to image. Could the pencil of Raphael have 
transferred the living grandeur of Niagara upon the 
canvas? Can any artist paint an evening sunset with 
its appropriate gorgeousness and the mellowing beauty 
of its vanishing glories? And if not, why should it 
appear marvelous that the glowing descriptions of 
heaven cannot adequately or fully acquaint us with its 
actual perfections. The skill and resources of Jehovah 
have been laid out upon it. Man has constructed ele- 
gant palaces, and wrought many attractive things ; but 
God did not commit the preparation of that mansion to 
man or angels, but his own hand has fashioned it ; and, 
therefore, it is doubtless true even of the physical ex- 
cellencies of the home of the pure that " eye hath not 
seen, ear hath not heard; neither hath it entered into 
the heart of man to conceive what God hath laid up 
for those who love him." 

But the future home of Christians is also possessed 



368 MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

of a moral glory. It is an abode of spotless purity. 
This holiness of heaven is represented under the image 
of light. Light is the only material substance that is 
altogether pure. Gold is not perfectly free from impur- 
ities ; and the gems which sparkle in the imperial crown 
are not as pure as the sunbeams which they reflect. 
Light may pass through an impure medium, and fall 
upon the stagnant and foul pool without being tar- 
nished. And since it is not only perfectly pure, but 
warms and illumes the world, it is used as an image of 
piety and holiness. 

And as the purity and the blessings of light made 
it a fit emblem in the estimation of inspired writers to 
represent the nature and effects of religion, so also for 
the same reason is it appropriately used to describe the 
purity and felicity of heaven. Hence it is written, 
" And there shall be no night there." No physical 
night, no darkness, shall ever mantle the celestial 
fields ; no intellectual night, no errors of judgment, no 
fallacious conclusions of the reasoning faculties. But 
above all, there will be no moral night. All the angeb 
are holy. And as to the saints, they are like Christ ; 



MO THE J? ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 369 

bearing his image, and reflecting his glorious holiness, 
as the planets reflect the light of the sun. " He is able 
to present you faultless before the presence of his glory 
with exceeding joy." " Then," said the Savior, " shall 
the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of 
the Father." "They that be wise shall shine as the 
brightness of the firmament, and as the stars forever 
and ever." "They shall walk with me in white, for 
they are worthy. " " The sufferings of this present 
time," says the apostle, " are not worthy to be compared 
to the glory which shall be revealed in us." These 
and many other passages represent to us the holiness of 
the saints. They are holy as God is holy. And what 
an inconceivable moral splendor must, therefore, clothe 
that heavenly world ! What a dignity and glory would 
cover the earth, were all its inhabitants morally pure! 
But alas! it is not so here; for this world is a moral 
waste, with here and there a flower waked into bloom 
by the quickening power of Divine grace. This earth 
is a land of storms and tempests, of tears and woes. 
. Here we groan, being burdened with many imperfec- 
tions, and oppressed with many trials. One calamity 



370 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

after another sweeps with desolating power over those 
cherished spots where we rejoiced in the light of earthly 
prosperity ; and we move about in that circle once 
radiant with joys, and vocal with voices forever hushed 
on earth, and fill it with our lamentations, and water it 
with our tears. Here we are continually reminded of 
the evil of sin, and the miseries with which it embitters 
life. But yonder we shall have passed beyond the 
reach of its influence ; for in that home of bliss there 
is no curse, no sin, no sorrow, no death. 

It is also ahappy and glorious home. There, there 
is perfect harmony, and, therefore, perfect peace. No 
disturbing element can enter there to conflict with our 
happiness. Here we are never secure against those 
numerous external evils and internal corruptions which 
mar our tranquillity and disturb the peace of our souls. 
But as all those influences which agitate and afflict our 
spirits are caused by sin, and as in heaven we shall be 
perfectly holy, we shall also be perfectly happy. And 
besides the absence of all disturbing causes and jarring 
elements, the saints are also in possession of all that 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 371 

can possibly contribute to the enjoyment of a rational 
being. 

But it is also a glorious home in view of the society 
of the place, and the relations they sustain to each 
other. The apostles speak of heaven as a house, a 
city, a commonwealth, or association of believers. 
" For we know that if our earthly house of this taber- 
nacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a 
house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 

Among the elements which will enter into our 
happiness in that blessed home, the employments in 
which we shall engage will constitute a large item. To 
me it has always seemed an erroneous supposition that 
the activities of the saints are wholly taken up in acts 
of praise and contemplations of the prefections of 
Deity. That these exercises will enter largely into their 
occupations is morally certain ; but that they are the 
only and exclusive employments does not appear prob- 
able. There are many other methods besides this con- 
templation through which the excellency of the divine 
character may be discovered and admired. The history 
of creation will be an absorbing theme of interest and 



372 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

study. For with it are associated the grandeur, the 
might, the wisdom, and goodness of God. The extent 
and duration of his kingdom and being, the profundity 
of his counsels, and the sublimity of his power and 
glory, are all brought under review in the volume of 
creation. Communications from those sons of light 
who were spectators of that event may be imparted to 
the saints. And add to this the fact that God will 
throw open to the inspections of his children the entire 
universe, and permit them to visit all the worlds that 
move in cloudless majesty through his vast dominions, 
and what sublime lessons will the mind learn as it 
sweeps over that field of immensity, studded with the 
magnificent creations of Jehovah ! If the cultivated 
mind already derives its most exalted pleasures from 
devout astronomical studies, will it not experience in- 
finitely greater delight, then, in viewing the motions 
and listening to the melodies of the spheres ? And as 
the grandeur of God's creations was the frequent theme 
of prophets and inspired writers in general, and as 
nothing which they have written impresses the mind 
with a livelier sense of the might and majesty of the 



MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 373 

• 

great Architect than their allusions to, and descriptions 
of, the vast materialism which He has fashioned, so is 
it reasonable to infer that our impressions of the great- 
ness of Jehovah will be proportionably increased as 
our conceptions of the extent and magnificence of His' 
empire will be enlarged. We cherish it, then, as a 
precious conviction, that those heavens into whose holy 
depths our eyes have so often and admiringly peered, 
will become accessible to our spirits, and that it will be 
our privilege to survey and explore all the worlds with 
which they are peopled, as we now do the earth upon 
which we dwell. 

Then our heavenly home will abide forever — it is 
eternal. This is its crowning excellence. That which 
greatly depreciates the value of the most desirable 
earthly possessions, and honors, and distinctions, is 
their liability to pass away; yea, the inevitable destruc- 
tion which awaits them. Decay and death are im- 
printed upon all things. Among the properties which 
enter into the constitution of earthly objects, we neither 
find permanence nor indestructibility. God has im- 
pressed mutability upon all the works of man. No 



374 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

magnificent city that he has built, no stately pile nor 
towering pyramid which his genius has planned and 
his industry has executed, but hath either crumbled 
into a heap of ruin, or has upon it the marks of decay. 
No, not the most costly and durable monument of 
marble or of brass will remain exempt from this inevi- 
table doom. Man himself is an illustration of this frailty 
of human things; " for his days are as the grass, as a 
flower of tlxe field he flourisheth; for the wind passeth 
over it, and it is gone, and the place that knew it shall 
know it no more forever." "Our fathers, where are 
they?" " And the prophets, do they live forever?" 
Alas! what millions have gone down into the tomb, 
and what precious treasures does this earth hold over 
to the resurrection morn! Look, we are at our fire- 
sides and households; our families are growing less. 

" Friend after friend departs, 
Who has not lost a friend! " 

The most lovely and happily-conditioned family 
has germinating within it, the seeds o f death and disso- 
lution. But the Christian dies but once, and dying, 
lives forever. We can stand by our deserted family 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 375 

altars, and desolate hearths, and look up to our future 
glorious home, already occupied by our sainted friends, 
and rejoice, that decay and blight never fall upon the 
Christian's home in heaven. 

No, it is permanent. Its foundations are laid in 
the immutability of Jehovah — its walls are immortal- 
ity, its gates praise, and its day eternity. There it 
stands in its peerless glory, the metropolis of the uni- 
verse, luminous with the light of God. And amid all 
the changes which may sweep with desolating power 
over thrones and kingdoms, it will stand radiant with 
salvation, and remain unshaken and unimpaired, 
amid — 

" The wreck of matter 
And the crash of worlds. " 

And may not those who have furnished inmates for 
that glorious home — who have watched by the pillow 
of the dying whom they loved, until their spirits took 
wing for that place of rest, derive comfort from the 
assurance that they are supremely blest ! O, you 
would not, if you could, my bereaved brother, or sis- 
ter, silence one of the harps of heaven by bringing 



376 MO THER ' ^ HOME IN HE A VEN. 

back the spirit whose hand sweeps it to the praise of 
the Redeemer! Nay, the more you contemplate the 
glory of that home, and the blessedness of its occu- 
pants, the more you will become reconciled to the most 
painful bereavements ; while the hope of entering there 
will excite you to unremitted diligence to obtain that 
purity of heart, without which Ave cannot see God. 
Aged disciple, thou art near thy home ; and oh, such 
a home! Labor patiently, thou man of toil, and wait 
calmly, for thy Redeemer draweth nigh! Weary, 
afflicted, desolate one, drink the cup which a Father's 
hand gives, for thy night of sorrow is fast passing 
away; for behold, the dawn of an eternal day of glory 
is now breaking-. 




MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 377 



THE MOUNTAINS OF LIFE. 

— yames G. Clark. 

npHERE'S a land far away, mid the stars, we are told, 

Where they know not the sorrows of time ; 
Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold, 

And life is a treasure sublime ; 
Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul, 
Where ages of splendor eternally roll ; — 
Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal 
On the evergreen mountains of life. 



Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful land, 

But our visions have told of its bliss, 
And our souls by the gale from its gardens are fanned 

When we faint in the deserts of this. 
And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose, 
When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes, 
And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows 
From the evergreen mountains of life. 



378 MO THER 'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

O ! the stars never tread the blue heavens at night 

But we think where the ransomed have trod ; 
And the day never smiles from its palace of light 

But we feel the bright smile of our God. 
We are traveling homeward through changes and gloom,, 
To a kingdom where pleasures unchangingly bloom, 
And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb 
From the evergreen mountains of life. 



HEREAFTER. 

,r piS sweet to think hereafter, 

When the spirit leaves this sphere, 
Love on deathless wings shall waft her 

To those she long hath mourned for here ! 
Hearts from which 'twas death to sever, 

Eyes this world can ne'er restore. 
There as warm, as bright as ever, 

Shall meet us and be lost no more. 




There's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told, 
Where they know not the sorrows of time. 



MOTHER 'S HOME IN HE A VEIST. 379 



THE HOME OVER THERE. 



■D. W. D. Huntington. 



/^\H, think of the home over there, 

By the side of the river of light, 
Where the saints all immortal and fair, 
Are robed in their garments of white! 

Oh, think of the friends over there, 
Who before us the journey have trod, 

Of the songs that they breathe on the air, 
In their home in the palace of God! 

I'll soon be at home over there, 
For the end of my journey I see ; 

Many dear to my heart, over there, 
Are watching and waiting for me. 



3S0 MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 



"HOME IS WHERE MOTHER IS." 

TT7HEN the toils and cares of the day are over, and 
the children are at home from school, then 
comes the most delightful hour to the family circle. 
The outside world is dismissed, and father, and mother, 
and children are together in sweet communion and un- 
shaken trust. There is no vacant chair. There is not 
a face missing. Death has never visited this home. 
The hour of retiring comes, and blessed with father's 
instructions and mother's prayers, the little group retire 
for the night. May it not be that angels hover over 
such a home during the silent watches. 

But sickness comes. The mother is prostrated ; a 
physician is called, but he gives no hope. Friends 
gather about the bed and look sadly on while the 
mother passes through the valley and shadow of death. 
The dreadful hour is over at last, and she is dead. 
Night comes on again, and a lonely watch is kept. 
How changed this home! What now is the " evening 
hour," and what must it be in all time to come? 

Little children know no one so dear as mother ; 



MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 381 

they long for none so much, and even up to adult age — 
" Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you! " 
The beautiful carrier-pigeons dart through the 

air like arrows at the rate of forty miles an hour, 
going home. " The little bird is a dear lover of home, 

and perils everything to get there. And so with all 

human kind — 

" There is no place like home ; 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 

And when from the family circle the mother is called 
away, the hearts of the children naturally turn toward 
that land where — 

" Sickness, sorrow, pain, and death 
Are felt and feared no more." 

And however much they may shrink at " death's 
alarms," their is a strong feeling that henceforth " their 
home " is in heaven. 

" I am going home to die no more," 
was her parting blessing to her loved ones. 

" A home in heaven, 
What a joyful thought! " 

When mother is dead, and father is dead, and 
the family are scattered, there can be but one hope 



382 MOTHER 'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

and expectation of a family reunion. The manliness 
and dignity, and industry of the father are things never 
to be forgotten, and his counsels have saved us many 
a blunder, but — 

" No love like mother-love, 
Ever was known. " 

And at that future family reunion we hope for, mother 
will be nearest and dearest of all. 

Many a motherless and homeless child strays from 
the paths of right. No one knows so well as a mother 
how to guide the little feet. How lone and sad the 
motherless child; with, perhaps, no home, and no 
abiding friendships, or love, "in all the land," the 
heart at last turns towards — 

" The home of the soul, 
Where mother is waiting and watching. " 

Like the uncaged carrier-bird, the soul longs for 
home. 

Mrs. Sigourney vividly portrays a scene where a 
little girl is passing through the dark valley and shadow 
of death — 

" She told her faith in Jesus — 
Her simple prayer was said ; 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 38.-4 

And now that darkened vail she trod 
Which leadeth to the dead. 

" Yet mid the gasp and struggle, 

With shuddering lips she cried 
' O mother, dearest mother, 

Bury me by your side ! ' 

" One only wish she uttered, 

While life was ebbing fast, 
' Sleep by my side, dear mother, 

And rise with me at last.' " 

Death itself seemed unable to separate them. Her 
thoughts, and feelings, and hopes were all of her 
mother ; and the gloom of the grave and fear of the 
future were overshadowed in the comforting thought 
that mother would go along through it all, and would, 

" Rise with me at last. " 
Home is where mother is, let that be among — 
" The sepulchres of our departed," 

or in — 

" The far-away home of the soul. " 
As the carrier-dove soars aloft, and surveys 
" The landscape o'er," 



3?4 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

and then speeds away home, so many a loved, and 

weary, and afflicted one gladly leaves — 

" This land of sin and sorrow," 

for mother's home beyond the stars. What delight in 

that thought, and that rapturous hope, as it brightens 

into fruition, and the heart cries out — 

Oh, joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the beautiful river, 
The angel of death shall carry me. " 



"THERE IS A WORLD ABOVE." 

^HERE is a world above, 
*- Where parting is unknown ; 
A long eternity of love, 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here, 
Translated to that glorious sphere. 



MOTHER 'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 385 



TO MY MOTHER. 

— Noah W. Parker. 

n^HERE lives and dwells in mansions far 

Beyond the ken of erring mortals, 
A soul whose virtues, like a star 

Resplendent, shine beyond their portals. 
A soul so loving, kind and fair — 

To me more dear than every other — 
Who blest me with her latest prayer, 

And answered to the name of Mother." 



The joys and griefs of childhood born, 

She shared with all a mother's fervor ; 
My joys were jewels in her crown, 

My griefs, her clouds of sadness ever. 
For all my faults she made excuse, 

My merits praised o'er every other ; 
She screened me from the world's abuse, 

And taught me to adore — my Mother. 



386 MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

When youth, with its ambitious fires, 

Had nerved my soul to grand endeavor, 
She cherished all my high desires, 

And checked each gross outcropping ever. 
At times, when evil took command, 

And worldly lusts the good would smother, 
No other, with the helping hand, 

So quickly came to save, as Mother. 



How oft my wayward steps have torn 

That loving heart, and been forgiven ; 
How oft my chidings she has borne, 

Is known but in the courts of heaven. 
In heedless folly oft I've trod 

O'er her fond heart, to please another, 
While she would humbly ask her God 

To pardon me, as would my Mother. 



When manhood's years and business cares 
At last compelled a separation, 

She followed with her fondest prayer, 
My every step and avocation, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEJV. 387 

And then, as in my childhood's years, 
A dearer friend than worldly brother, 

She shared my joys and anxious cares, 
As none can do, except a Mother. 

If I could live my life again, 

And hath both wealth and wordly power, 
And it would cause her heart one pain 

Or drive her from me for an hour, 
I'd give up all of wordly good, 

Its pomp, its crowns, its giddy bother, 
To prove to thee my gratitude — 

My dearest, sun-crowned, angel Mother. 

The sons and daughters of our race 

Can never know, till death has taken 
The mother from their fond embrace, 

How great their loss, or how forsaken. 
She molds the mind for cares of state, 

She teaches man to love his brother, 
And through the greatest of the great 

She still remains a loving Mother. 



388 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

If aught of truth my life has shown, 

Or aught of manhood's high endeavor, 
I owe it to that angel one 

Who gave me life and loved me ever. 
She left her sons and daughters all 

A life whose years surpassed each other, 
In all the noble traits that fall 

Upon the sacred name of Mother. 

Pile to the clouds the stones of fame, 

For heroes who will live in story, 
And grave on each the honored names 

Of those who fill the cup of glory; 
But higher still, and brighter far, 

A name will shine o'er every other — 
That dearest, sweetest monitor — 

That race-upbuilding name of Mother. 







N the cultivation of the minds and hearts of women 
depend the welfare and the happiness of the race. 

— Mrs. Sigourney. 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 389 



MEMORIES. 

— Horace P. Biddle. 

\ HAD a mother ; but ere six summer's suns 

Had kissed my boyish locks she was no more. 
Thus gone my guide when life had just begun, 
And I too young my guardian to deplore ; 
Yet memory wanders back to days of yore, 

And finds one tender place no time can hide, 
'Tis deeply printed in my bosom's core ; 

'Twas when she faintly called me to her side, 
Kissed my wet cheek, begged blessings on her boy, and 
died! 



HPHE tender smile, 

The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, 
The woman's soul and the angel's face, 
That are beaming on me all the while — 
She is my mother. 



390 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 



CHANGED HARMONIES. 

— Rev. James W. Mills. 

T^AIR faces beaming round the household hearth, 

Young, joyous tones in melody of mirth, 
The sire doubly living in his boy, 
And she, the crown of all that wealth of joy, — 
These make the home like some sweet lyre, given 
To sound on earth the harmonies of heaven. 

A sudden discord breaks the swelling strain, 

One cord has snapped ; the harmony again 

Subdued and slower moves, but never more 

Can pour the same glad music as of yore ; 

Less and less full the strains successful wake, 

Chord after chord must break, and break, and break 

Until the earthly lyrej dumb and riven, 

Finds all its chords restrung to loftier notes in heaven. 



MO THER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 391 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 

— yoseph Very. 

TT71TH the same letter, heaven and home begin, 
And the words dwell together in the mind ; 
For they who would a home in heaven win 

Must first a heaven in home begin to find. 
Be happy here, yet with a humble soul 

That looks for perfect happiness in heaven ; 
For what thou hast is earnest of the whole 

Which to the faithful shall at last be given. 
As once the patriarch in a vision blessed, 

Saw the swift angels hastening to and fro, 
And the lone spot whereon he lay to rest 

Became to him the gate of heaven below; 
So may to thee, when life itself is done, 
Thy home on earth and heaven above be one. 



392 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 



CROSSING OVER. 

TT may be that the loved of our homes who have 
gone on before are watching and waiting for us, 
and that when the hour of death shall come, they will 
not be far away. There are many events that have 
transpired at death's door illustrating and proving this 
beautiful thought. It is no inconsiderable thing for a 
suffering child to believe that a sainted mother will be 
near when death comes. Mother's name is the dearest 
of all earthly names, and in the saddest hours of life 
the child turns to her. I was at the bedside of a 
suffering woman, years ago, and although she was her- 
self a wife and mother, when the gloom of death gath- 
ered around her, she called aloud for her own sainted 
mother. 

" Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you! " 
And so when death comes, mother is dearer, and 
perhaps nearer, than any other one we have ever known. 
And when we approach Jordan's brink, she will be 
there to go with us over. This thought is illustrated 
by the following truthful and touching incident : — 

" A little girl, a lovely and precious child, lost her 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. ' 393 

mother at an age too early to fix the loved features in 
her remembrance. She was as frail as beautiful ; and 
as the bud of her heart unfolded, it seemed as if, won 
by her mother's prayers, to turn instinctively heaven- 
ward. She was the idol of the family ; but she faded 
away early. She would lie upon the lap of a friend 
who bestowed a mother's kind care upon her, and 
winding one wasted arm about her neck, would say, 
'Now tell me about my mamma.' And when the 
oft-repeated tale was told, she would say softly, ' Take 
me into the parlor; I want to see my mamma.' The 
request was never refused, and the affectionate child 
would lie for hours contentedly gazing on her mother's 
portrait. But — 

" Pale and wan she grew, and weakly, 
Bearing all her pains so meekly, 
That to them she still grew dearer, 
As the trial-hour grew nearer." 
" That hour came at last, and the weeping friends 
assembled to see the little child die. The dew of death 
was already on the flower as its life's sun was going 
down. The little chest heaved spasmodically. ' Do 
you know me, darling ? ' sobbed the voice that was 
dearest ; but it awoke no answer. All at once a bright- 



394 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

ness, as if from the upper world, burst over the child's 
colorless features. The eyelids flashed open, the lips 
parted, the wan, cuddling hands flew up in the little 
one's last impulsive effort, as she looked piercingly 
into the far-above. ' Mother ! ' she cried with surprise 
and transport, and passed with that breath to her 
mother's bosom. 
" When my final farewell to the world I have said, 

And gladly lie down to my rest ; 
When softly the watchers shall say, ' He is dead,' 

And fold my pale hands o'er my breast ; 
And when with my glorified vision at last 

The walls of that city I see, 
Will any one then, at the beautiful gate, 

Be watching and waiting for me ? 
There are old and forsaken who linger a while 

In the homes that their dearest have left, 
And a few gentle words or an action of love 

May cheer their sad spirits bereft ; 
But the reaper is near to the long-standing corn, 

The weary will soon be set free ; 
Will any of them, at the beautiful gate, 

Be watching and waiting for me ? " 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 395 



MY MOTHER AT THE GATE. 

f\ THERE'S many a lovely picture 

On memory's silent wall, 
There's many a cherished image 

That I tenderly recall 
The sweet home of my childhood, 

With its singing brooks and birds ; 
The friends who grew beside me, 

With their loving looks and words ; 
The flowers that decked the wildwood, 

The roses fresh and sweet, 
The bluebells and the daisies, 

That blossomed at my feet ; 
All, all are very precious, 

And often come to me, 
Like breezes from a better land, 

Beyond life's troubled sea, 
But the sweetest, dearest picture 

That memory can create, 



39 6 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

Is the image of my mother, 
My mother at the gate. 

It is there I see her standing, 

With her face so pure and fair, 
With the sunlight and the shadows 

On her snowy cap and hair ; 
I can feel the soft warm pressure 

Of the hand that clasped my own ; 
I can see the look of fondness 

That in her blue eyes shone ; 
I can hear her parting blessing 

Through the lapse of weary years; 
I can see through all my sorrows 

Her own sweet, silent tears. 
Ah! amid the darkest trials 

That have mingled with my fate, 
I have turned to that dear image, 

My mother at the gate. 

But she has crossed the river, 
She is with the angels now ; 



MOTHER'S .HOME IN HEA VEN. 397 

She has laid aside earth's crosses, 

And the crown is on her brow ; 
She is clothed in clean white linen, 

And she walks the streets of gold. 
O, loved one, safe forever, 

Within the Savior's fold, 
No sorrowing thoughts can reach thee, 

No grief is thine to-day ; 
God gives thee joy for mourning, 

Thy tears are wiped away, 
They are waiting in that city 

Where the saints and angels wait, 
And I'll know thee, dearest mother, 

When I reach the Pearly Gate. 

— A nonymous. 




398 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 



MY MOTHER. 

— Belle Bush. 

TV TY mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the 

Holy Evangels ; 
There she feels neither sorrow nor pain, and treads not 

the path of the weary. 
Years ago, in the bud of my being, I knew her a radi- 
ant mortal, 
But the house of her soul decayed, and she fled from 

the crumbling mansion, 
And over the sea of eternity, bridged by the hands of 

the angels, 
Uniting the links of belief, with the golden chain of 

repentance, 
She passed with the torch of prayer, to the opposite 

shore in safety, 
When crowned with the garlands of love, she mounted 

the steps of the city. 
Angels of mercy and truth, keeping watch at the 

heavenly portals, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 399 

Behold her approach from afar, and flung open the 

pearly partitions ; 
With songs and loud hallelujahs, they welcomed the 

earth-ransomed stranger, 
And guided her steps, till she stood on the brink of the 

life-giving fountain, 
Where tasting its lethean waters, all the joys of the 

world were forgotten, 
Save the beautiful bloom of the soul — the love in the 

heart of the mother. 
This, the light of her life upon earth, now budded and 

blossomed in heaven ; 
Stately and fair it towered, and the hues of its leaves 

were immortal ; 
Strong tendrils grew out from each bough, and twined 

round the cords of her spirit, 
While the zephyrs of Paradise played, and toyed with 

the delicate branches, 
Till each leaf like a sharp-string swayed, and murmured 

in strains ./Eolian, 
And often in musical numbers reminded the wondering 
mother 



400 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

Of the flowers she had left in the desert — her weary 

and sorrowing children. 
In their half-open leaflets she reads the pledge of her 

glorious mission, 
And rejoices that her love should gather those earth 

buds to her bosom. 
The angels beheld her in gladness rise up on those 

radiant pinions 
Which float on the air like a sunbeam, and rival the 

dove in their fleetness. 

Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the 

Holy Evangels ; 
But she conies on her soft floating pinions to look for 

her earth-born children. 

« 

She comes, and the hearts that were weary no longer 

remember their sorrow 
In their joy that the lost is returned, our beloved and 

radiant mother ; 
She comes, and our spirits rejoice, for we know she's 

our guardian angel, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 401 

O'er our journey in life keeping watch, and giving us 

gentle caresses. 
She comes, she comes with the light that opens the 

gate of the morning ; 
Her robes are of delicate pink, sweet emblem of holy 

affection — 
And her voice is our music by night, of perils and 

storms giving warning — 
Arid twined o'er her radiant brow are the amaranth- 
blossoms of heaven. 
She smiles, and the light of her smiles bringeth joy in 

our seasons of darkness ; 
She whispers, and soft are the zephyrs that echo her 

musical numbers, 
As they waft o'er the chords of our being her thrilling 

and fervent emotions. 
We listen to her in our sorrow, and yield to each gentle 

impression, 
Fill pleasant to us is the path leading down to the 

rushing river ; 
O'er the swift rolling current of death we shall pass to 

the homes of the spirits, 



4 02 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

And waiting beside the still waters, our mother will be 
there to greet us ; 

With songs she will welcome our coming, and fold us 
to rest on her bosom, 

And teach us, like lisping children, to murmur the lan- 
guage of heaven! 

Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the 
Holy Evangels, 

But she comes on the pinions of love to watch her sor- 
rowing children ; 

She comes, and the shadows depart, as we thrill to her 
gentle caresses. 

Our Father in Heaven, we bless thee, that our mother's 
our Guardian Angel! 




—Page -W3. 



A lioly hush pervades my heart 
"With a mysterious power, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 403 



THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 

— Susan Pindar. 

A RT thou near me, spirit mother, 
When in the twilight hour, 
A holy hush pervades my heart 

With a mysterious power ; 
While eyes of dreamy tenderness 

Seem gazing into mine, 
And stir the fountains of my soul, — 
Sweet mother, are they thine? 

Is thine the blessed influence 

That o'er my being flings 
A sense of rest, as though 'twas wrapped 

Within an angel's wings? 
A deep abiding trustfulness, 

That seems an earnest given 
Of future happiness aud peace 

To those who dwell in heaven. 

And often when my footsteps stray 

In error's shining track, 
There comes a soft restraining voice, 



404 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN 

That seems to call me back ; 
I hear it not with outward ears, 

But with a power divine 
Its whisper thrills my inmost soul, 

Sweet mother, is it thine? 

It well may be, for know we not 

That beings all unseen 
Are ever hovering o'er our paths, 

The earth and sky between? 
They're with us in our daily walks, 

And tireless vigils keep 
To weave those happy fantasies 

That bless our hours of sleep! 

Oh, could we feel that spirit eyes 

Forever on us gaze, 
And watch each idle thought that threads 

The heart's bewildering maze ; 
Would we not guard each careless word, 

All sinful feelings quell, 
Lest we should grieve the cherished ones 

We loved on earth so well? 






Heart Echoes. 



(40s) 




Oh, days long past ! Oh, years afar : 
What whisperings thou dost bring ! 




HEART ECHOES. 407 

THE USE OF TEARS. 

— By Lord Morpeth. 

T)E not thy tears too harshly chid, 

Repine not at the rising sigh; — 
Who, if they might, would always bid 
The breast be still, the cheek be dry? 

How little of ourselves we know 

Before a grief the heart has felt; 
The lessons that we learn of woe 

May brace the mind, as well as melt. 

The energies too stern for mirth, 

The reach of thought, the strength of will, 

'Mid cloud and tempest have their birth, 
Through blight and blast their course fulfill. 

'Tis only when it mourns and fears 

The loaded spirit feels forgiven, 
And through the mist of falling tears 

We catch the surest glimpse of heaven. 



/ 



4 o8 HEART ECHOES. 

Tears at each pure emotion flow; 

They wait on Pity's gentle claim, 
On Admiration's fervid glow, 

On Piety's seraphic flame. 

Love's perfect triumph never crown'd 
The hope unchecker'd by a pang; 

The gaudiest wreaths with thorns are bound, 
And Sappho wept before she sang. 



THE ROAD TO WISDOM. 

— Buhver. 

1VTINE times out of ten it is over the bridge of sighs 
that we pass the narrow gulf from youth to 
maturity. That interval is usually occupied by an 
ill-placed or disappointed affection. We recover, 
and find ourselves a new being. The intellect has 
become hardened by the fire through which it has 
passed. The mind profits by the wreck of every 
passion, and we may measure our road to wisdom 
by the sorrows we have undergone. 



HEART ECHOES. 409 



REMEMBERING MOTHER. 

TT7HEN Lydia Newman's old Quaker uncle saw 
that she had fastened her pretty little Newport 
ties with poppy-red ribbons he frowned and told her 
it was not seemly. But Lydia laughed. " I don't care 
for them myself," she said, " but I want my little boy 
to remember that his mother wore red bows on her 
shoes." Who does not remember the pretty things 
that "mother" wore? Her dainty laces, the pale 
lilac dresses, the rose tucked under the lace on her 
breast, seem half divine when they become but mem- 
ories to us. 

"Mother" is "mother," be she gentle or rough; 
but what a different ideal we have when Ave recall 
how proud we were when we brought our friends 
home from school and' rather surprised them with her 
graceful, pretty ways. Her hair was so soft, her eyes 
so tender, she talked so well and knew how to make 
a boy feel at home. It was not necessary to make 
excuses for her and say she was so busy. The other 
boys themselves praised her, and we felt sorry for 
them, because we knew they must feel how much 



410 HEART ECHOES. 

sweeter and prettier she was than their mothers could 
be. It is wise for a mother to take time to dress and 
be fair in her children's eyes; to read for their sake; 
to learn to talk and to live in to-day. The circle the 
mother draws around her is more wholesome for the 
child than the one he has to nake for himself, and 
she is responsible for his social surroundings. It is 
not easy to be the child's most interesting compan- 
ion and to make home his strongest magnet, but the 
mothers who have done this have been mothers of 
good men. 



TOW many there are who look back regretfully 
to the days of their childhood, and wish they 
were boys again. That seems to them the happiest 
portion of human life — so free from cares, so buoy- 
ant in spirits, so easily satisfied with its little sports 
and pastimes. As they think of those happy days, 
they almost wish they could always have remained 
children. Such persons surely indulge but lowly as- 
pirations, and but petty views of what constitutes 
happiness for rational beings. Childhood is indeed 
beautiful in its season ; but chiefly so in its rela- 
tions to the after years. 



HEAR T E CHOES. 41 1 



HOME INFLUENCE. 



— Talmage. 



\ GOOD home is deathless in its influence. Par- 
ents may be gone. The old homestead may be 
sold and have passed out of the possession of the 
family. The house itself may be torn down. The 
meadow brook that ran in front of the house may 
have changed its course or have dried up. The long 
line of old-fashioned sun flowers and the hedges of 
wild rose may have been graded, and in place thereof 
are now the beauties of modern gardening. The old 
poplar tree may have cast down its crown of verdure 
and may have fallen. You say you would like to go 
back a little while and see that home, and you go, 
and, oh, how changed it is! Yet that place will 
never lose its charm over your soul. That first 
earthly home will thrill through your everlasting 
career. The dewdrops that you have dashed from 
the chick-weed as you drove the cows afield thirty 
years ago; the fire-flies that flashed in your father's 
home on summer nights when the evenings were too 
short for a candle; the tinged pebbles that you 



4 i 2 HEAR T E CHOES. 

gathered in your apron on the margin of the brook; 
the berries that you strung into a necklace, and the 
daisies that you plucked for your hair — all have gone 
into your sentiments and tastes, and you will never 
get over them. The trundle-bed where you slept, 
the chair where you sat, the blue-edged dish out of 
which you ate, your sister's jumping rope, your 
brother's ball, your kite, your hoop, your mother's 
smile, your father's frown — they are all part of the 
fiber of your immortal nature. The mother of Mis- 
sionary Schwartz threw light on the dusky brow of 
the savages to whom he preached long after she was 
dead. The mother of Lord Byron pursued him, as 
with a fiend's fury, into all lands, stretching gloom 
and death into Childe Harold and Don Juan, and 
hovering in darkness over the lonely grave of Missol- 
onghi. 

Rascally and vagabond people for the most part 
come forth from unhappy homes. Parents harsh and 
cruel on the one hand, or on the other lenient to perfect 
looseness, are raising up a generation of vipers. A 
home in which scolding and fault-finding predominate 
is blood relation to the gallows and penitentiary. 
Petulance is a reptile that may crawl up into the fam- 



HEAR T E CHOES. 4 1 3 

ily nest and crush it. There are parents who disgust 
their children even with religion. They scold their 
little ones for not loving God. They- have an infernal 
manner of hearing the catechism. They go about 
even their religious duties in an exasperating way, as 
though they were possessed of the devil. Their house 
is full of the war hoop of contention, and from such 
scenes husbands and children dash out into places of 
dissipation to find their lost peace, or the peace they 
never had. Oh, is there some mother like Hagar 
leading her Ishmael into the desert to be smitten of 
the thirst and parched in the sand ? In the solemn 
birth-hour a voice fell straight from the skies into 
that dwelling, saying, "Take this child and nurse it 
for Me, and I will give thee thy wages." When 
angels of God at nightfall hover over that dwelling, 
do they hear the little ones lisp the name of Jesus ? 
Oh, traveler for eternity, with your little ones gath- 
ered up under your robes, are you sure you are on the 
right road, or are you leading them on a dangerous 
and winding bridle-path, off which their inexperienced 
feet may slip, and up which comes the howling of the 
wolf and the sound of loosening ledge and tumbling 
avalanche ? Blessed the family altar where the chil- 



4H HEART ECHOES. 

dren kneel. Blessed the cradle where the Christian 
mother rocks the Christian child. Blessed the song 
the little one sings at nightfall when sleep is closing 
the eyes and loosening the hand from the toy on the 
pillow. Blessed the mother's heart, whose every 
throb is a prayer to God for the salvation of her chil- 
dren. The world grows old, and soon the stars will 
cease to illuminate it, and the herbage to clothe it, 
and the mountains to guard it, and the waters to re- 
fresh it, and the heavens to overspan it, and the long 
story of its sin and shame and glory and triumph will 
turn to ashes; but parental influence, starting in the 
early home, will roll on and up into the great eter- 
nity, blooming in all the joy, waving in all the tri- 
umph, exulting in all the song of heaven, or groaning 
in all the pains and shrinking back into all the shame, 
and frowning in all the darkness of the great prison- 
house. O, father! O, mother! In which direction is 
your influence tending? 

I verily believe that three-fourths of the wicked- 
ness of the great city runs out rank and putrid from 
undisciplined homes. Sometimes, I know, there is 
an exception. From a bright, beautiful, cheerful 
Christian home a husband or a son will go off to die. 



HEART ECHOES. 415 

How long you have had that boy in your prayer! 
He does not know the tears you have shed. He 
knows nothing about the sleepless nights you have 
passed about him. He started on the downward 
road and will not stop, call you never so tenderly. 
Oh, it is tough, it is very tough, after having ex- 
pended so much kindness and care to get such pay 
of ingratitude! There is many a young man proud 
of his mother who would strike into the dust the 
dastard 'who would dare to do her wrong, whose 
hand by his first step in sin is sharpening a dagger 
to plunge through that mother's heart! I saw it. 
The telegram summoned him. I saw him come in, 
scarred and bloated, to look upon the lifeless form of 
his mother — those gray locks pushed back over the 
wrinkled brow he had whitened by his waywardness. 
Those eyes had rained floods of tears over his in- 
iquity. That still white hand had written many a 
loving letter of counsel and invitation. He had 
broken that old heart. When he came in, he threw 
himself on the coffin and sobbed outright and cried, 
"Mother! mother!" But the lips that kissed him in 
infancy, and that had spoken so kindly on other days 
when he came home, spake not. They were sealed 



4 1 6 HEAR T E CHOES. 

forever. Rather than such a memory on my soul, I 
would have rolled on me the Alps and the Himalayas. 
"The eye that mocketh its father and refuseth to 
obey its mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick 
it out, and the young eagles shall eat it." 



I 



TO MY MOTHER. 

— Translated from ffeine. 

LEFT thee once in mad desire to find 



The love for which my spirit yearned with pain, 

At many a door I knocked and knocked in vain, 
Craving love's alms which none to grant inclined, 

But laughing, treated me with cold disdain-^. 
Yet still I wandered, eager in the quest, 
Forever seeking, and for aye unblest, 

Since no one gave the boon for which I pined. 
Then, mother! turning to my home I went 

With weary steps and sorrow-numbing care, 
And lo! my pain was lost in sweet content, 

For what I sought came to me unaware; 
In the dear eyes that on thy son were bent 

All I had asked I found, for love was there. 



HEART ECHOES. 417 



SILENT SOUNDS. 



—Nellie Watts McVey. 

ATOU do not hear it ? Unto me 
-*- The sweet low sound comes carelessly; 
And, floating, floods the earth and sky 

With tender tone. 
You do not hear the restless beat 
Upon the floor of childish feet — - 
Of feet that tread the flowery street 

Of heaven alone. 



At morn, at noon, at eve, at night, 

I hear the patter, soft and light, 

And catch the gust of wings, snow-white, 

About my door. 
And on the silent air is borne 
The voice that from my world was torn — 
That left me, comfortless, to mourn 

For evermore. 



Sometimes floats up from out the street 
The boyish laughter, bird-like, sweet — 



4 1 3 HEAR T E CHOES. 

I turn, forgetfully, to greet 

My darling fair: 
Soft as the ripple of the stream, 
Breeze kissed beneath the moon's pale beam, 
How strangely real doth it seem ! 

And he not there. 

Ah, no; you cannot hear his call; 
You catch no laugh, nor light footfall; 
I am his mother — that is all; 

And he who said, 
"I will not leave thee desolate," 
Has, somehow, loosed the bonds of fate 
And left ajar the golden gate 

Which hides my dead. 



TOME'S not merely roof and room; — 
■**■*- It needs something to endear it. 
Home is where the heart can bloom; 

Where there's some kind lip to cheer it. 
What is home with none to meet, 

None to welcome, none to greet us? 
Home is sweet — and only sweet — 

When there's one we love to meet us. 



HEART ECHOES. 419 



BOY LOST! 

I TE had black eyes, with long lashes, red cheeks, 
and hair almost black and almost curly. He 
wore a crimson plaid jacket, with full trowsers but- 
toned on. Had a habit of whistling" and liked to ask 
questions. Was accompanied by a small dog. It 
is a long while now since he appeared. I have a 
very pleasant house and much company. My guests 
say, "Ah! it is pleasant here. Everything has an 
orderly put-away look — nothing about under feet, 
no dirt ! " 

But my eyes were aching for the sight of whist- 
ling and cut paper on the floor; of tumble-down 
card houses; of wooden sheep and cattle; of pop- 
guns, bows and arrows, whips, tops, go-carts, blocks 
and trumpery. I want to see boats a-rigging and 
carts a-making, crumbles on the carpet, and paste 
spilled upon the kitchen table. I want to see the 
chairs and tables turned wrong way about. I want 
to see the candy-making and corn-popping, and to 
find jack-knives and fish-hooks among my muslins; 
yet those things used to fret me once. 



420 HEAR T E CHOES. 

They say: "How quiet you are here. Ah! one 
here may settle his brains and be at peace." But 
my ears are aching for the pattering of little feet; for 
a hearty shout, a shrill whistle, a gay tra, la, la; for 
the crack of little whips, for the noise of drums and. 
fifes and tin trumpets; yet those things made me 
nervous once. 

They say: "Ah! you have leisure — nothing to 
disturb you; what heaps of sewing you must have 
time for." But I long to be asked for a bit of string 
or an old newspaper, for a cent to buy a slate pencil 
or peanuts. I want to be coaxed for a strip of cloth 
for gibs of mainsails, then to hem the same. I want 
to be followed by little feet all over the house; teased 
for a bit of dough for a little cake or to bake a pie in 
a saucer; yet those things used to fidget me once. 

They say: "Ah! you are not tied at home. 
How delightful to be always at liberty, to go to con- 
certs, lectures and parties; no confinement for you." 
But I want confinement. I want to listen for the 
school bell mornings, to give the last hasty wash and 
brush, and then to watch, from the window, nimble 
feet bounding to school. I want frequent rents to 
mend, and to replace lost buttons; I want to obliter- 



HEART ECHOES. 421 

ate mud stains, and paints of all colors. I want to 
be sitting 1 by a little crib of evenings, when weary 
feet are at rest, and prattling voices are hushed, the 
mothers may sing their lullabies, and tell over the 
oft-repeated stories. They don't know their happi- 
ness then — -those mothers. I didn't. All these 
things I called confinement once. 



A manly figure stands before me now. He is 
taller than I, has thick black whiskers, and wears 
a frock coat, bosomed shirt, and cravat. He has 
just come from college. He brings Latin and Greek 
in his countenance and busts of the old philosophers 
for the sitting room. He calls me mother, but I am 
rather unwilling to own him. 

He stoutly declares that he is my boy, and says 
that he will prove it. He brings me a small pair of 
trousers with gay stripes at the sides, and asks me if 
I didn't make them for him when he joined the boy's 
militia? He says he is the very boy, too, that made 
the bon fire near the barn so that we came very near 
having a fire in earnest. He brings his little boat 
to show the red stripes on the sail (it was the 
end of the piece), and the name on the stern — "Lucy 



422 HEAR T E CHOES. 

Low" — a little girl of our neighborhood, who, be- 
cause of her long curls and pretty round face, was 
the chosen favorite of my little boy. Her curls were 
long - since cut off, and she has grown to be a tall, 
handsome girl. How the red comes to his face 
when he shows me the name on the boat. 

Oh! I see it all as plain as if it were written in a 
book. My little boy is lost, and my big boy will be. 
Oh! I wish he were a little tired boy in a long white 
night-gown, lying in his crib, with me sitting by, 
holding his hand in mine, pushing the curls back 
from his forehead, watching his eyelids droop, and 
listening to his deep breathing. 

If I only had my little boy again, how happy I 
would be! How much I would bear, and how little 
I would fret and scold! I can never have him back 
again, but still there are many mothers who haven't 
yet lost their little boys. I wonder if they know 
they are living their very best days; that now is the 
time really to enjoy their children? I think if I had 
been more to my little boy, I might now be more to 
my grown-up boy. 



HEART ECHOES. 423 



WAIT FOR ME. 

—E. M. 
OEAWARD runs the little stream 

Where the wagoner cools his team; 
Where between the banks of moss, 
Stand the stepping stones to cross, 
O'er them comes a little maid, 
Laughing, not a bit afraid; 
Mother, there upon the shore, 
Crossed them safely just before, 

This the little lassie's plea — 
"Wait for me, wait for me! " 

Ah, so swift the waters run — 
One step, all might be undone; 
Little heart begins to beat, 
Fearing for the little feet. 
Soon her fear will all be lost, 
When the stepping-stones are crossed; 
Three more yet on which to stand — 
Two more, one more — then on land! 
'Tis the little lassie's plea — 
"Wait for me, wait for me!" 



424 HEART ECHOES. 

Ah, for you, my laughing lass, 
When the years have come to pass, 
May one still be near to guide 
While you cross life's river wide. 
And when no helping hand is near — 
None, if you should call, to hear — 
Think however far away, 
Mother still knows all you say; 

E'en in heav'n she heeds your plea- 
"Wait for me, wait for me! " 



ONLY A TRAMP. 

HPHE newspaper said: "The morning train struck 
an unknown tramp near the creek, killing him 
instantly. The man had on a striped shirt, faded 
trousers, heavy boots, blue overalls, brown blouse 
and a gray vest. In his hand he carried a red hand- 
kerchief, in which was some bread and a bunch of 
grapes. In his pocket was a letter addressed, 'Dear 
Father,' and signed, 'Your Son,' but with neither 
name or address." 

Only a tramp. Out in the wide world alone. All 
his earthly possessions tied up in a handkerchief. 



HEART ECHOES. 425 

Who is he ? No one knows. But perhaps his heart 
was warm — a kind, manly heart that beat within the 
ragged vest. How those harsh words must pierce 
the heart of the poor old mother, if she reads them. 
Doubtless when he was a babe, with his chubby little 
legs, and his dimpled toes, and his small, laughing 
mouth, and all the physical charms of babyhood, no 
one would have looked into the future and said: "He 
isn't worth raising; he'll be only a tramp." No, not 
one. And the proud young mother, as she gazed 
on her darling baby boy, would she think for a mo- 
ment that when he grew up into a great strong man 
he would be " only a tramp ?" Surely not. 

" In his pocket was a letter." "Dear Father," it 
began. What a wealth of love in those two simple 
words, "dear father!" Ah, but he loved the old 
father, the dear father. With his lot in life but that 
of a wanderer upon the face of the earth, he remem- 
bered the "dear father." How, perhaps, he pictured 
home in his mind. How he saw his mother and father 
seated at table in the cottage, where he had left them 
years before. How the poor fellow looked out into 
the darkness, over miles and miles of green, fertile 
fields, and saw in the far-away home one man in all 



426 HEART ECHOES. 

the world whom he could call friend. His father; 
nay, more, his "dear father." Oh, if the poor tramp's 
heart could but express the love and reverence con- 
cealed in those words. 

And the letter was signed "Your Son." I think 
I can read the meaning of those words. They spoke 
to the dear father as a child of God crying aloud to 
the heavenly parent. "Your son!" Yes, your son, 
not ashamed to lift up his face and proclaim to the 
world that, notwithstanding his rags and his tatters, 
he was "your son." Ah, but there are other fathers 
who look out over the wide world in the twilight of 
peace and happiness. They have, perhaps, a son 
somewhere in an unknown part of the world. "Your 
son." Yes, "dear father," perhaps even now he is 
hungry and thirsty. Nay, more; even now the 
words "dear father" clinging to his closed lips. 
Maybe "your son" is "only a tramp." God knows. 
Call back your wayward boy, "dear father." Your 
son has a manly heart. He loves his father, you 
love your son. May the sweet love of heaven hold 
you closer. "Dear father," "yourson" is " only a 
tramp," but you love your darling boy, and he loves 
your gray hair and wrinkled brow. "Dear father," 



HEART ECHOES. 427 

keep "your son" by your side, cling to him; and, 
son, stay by your father. Leave the wide world to 
itself. There is enough vice and misery there. 
Even if you are "only a tramp," remain at home — 
home, the garden spot of your life-time. Stay by 
your "dear father," and bring sunshine and gladness 
to him in his declining years. Your life' will be 
the better for it. Your bread and cheese will taste 
all the sweeter. Your heart will be softer, your 
hands cleaner, your soul purer. You are "only a 
tramp," but God bless you. 



TV /["OTHERS have trained our presidents and states- 
men. Washington's father died when he was 12 
years old. Jefferson, Jackson and Madison were left 
fatherless when small boys; Harrison, the elder, 
when he was young. Garfield's father died when 
the future president was a babe. Tyler, Andrew 
Johnson, Hayes and Cleveland all depended upon 
their widowed mothers for their training. It was 
the step-mother of Abraham Lincoln more than any 
other person that made him the man that he was. 



428 HEART ECHOES. 



TRUST. 

— John G. Whittier. 

A PICTURE memory brings to me: 
^ ■*" I look across the years and see 
Myself beside my mother's knee. 

I feel her gentle hand restrain 

My selfish moods, and know again 

A child's blind sense of wrong and pain. 

But wiser now, a man gray grown, 
My childhood's needs are better known, 
My mother's chastening love I own. 

Gray grown, but in our Father's sight 
A child still groping for the light 
To read His works and ways aright. 

I bow myself beneath His hand; 
That pain itself for good was planned, 
I trust, but cannot understand. 

I fondly dream it needs must be, 
That as my mother dealt with me, 
So with His children dealeth He. 



*■■ ,:M!r3i\!ii!!lll||(i||l|||| 



I' [in i I 



III pi 




.-aye 428. 



I loo:*: across tile years and see 
Myse:f beside my mother c knee. 



HEART ECHOES. 429 

I wait and trust the end will prove 
That here and there, below, above, 
The chastening heals, the pain is love! 



THE INVISIBLE CHILDREN. 

^\H, it is not when your children are with you; it 
is not when you see and hear them, that they 
are most to you; it is when the sad assemblage is 
gone; it is when the daisies have resumed their 
growth in the place where the little form was laid; 
it is when you have carried your children out, and 
said farewell, and come home again, and day and 
night are full of sweet memories; it is when summer 
and winter are full of touches and suggestions of 
them; it is when you cannot look up toward God 
without thinking of them; nor look down toward 
yourself and not think of them; it is when they have 
gone out of your arms, and are living to you only by 
the power of the imagination, that they are the most 
to you. The invisible children are the realest chil- 
dren, the sweetest children, the truest children, the 
children that touch our hearts as no hands of flesh 
ever could touch them. 



43° HEART ECHOES. 



A LETTER TO MOTHER. 

T AM cutting papers to-day, mother, 

(Papers to cover a shelf,) 
And saving out bits for my scrap-book; 

But unlike my former self, 
With the thdughts that are grand and noble, 

And the lines the poet sings, 
I am saving some very simple 
And decidedly childish things. 

For throned in her chair beside me, 

Sits a wee one, dainty and sweet, 
And I trust in the days that are coming 

She will care these lines to repeat. 
I think that in planning her life-work, 

The same fair future I see 
Which you saw In the long ago, mother, 

When you planned and prayed about me. 

I long to come home in the twilight, 
And, sitting down by your feet, 



HEAR T ECHOES. 43 1 

Listen again to the Bible tales 

You used long - ago to repeat — 
Of Adam, and Eve, and Abel; 

Of Noah, who heard and obeyed; 
Of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, 

With the faith and love they displayed. 

There was Joseph, sold into Egypt, 

And Moses before the king, 
And David, who slew Goliath 

With a little stone in his sling; 
There was Samuel, .called at night-time, 

And Jonah cast into the deep, 
And many a dream and vision 

Of prophets and kings asleep. 

Then there was the wonderful story 

Of the child in a manger-bed, 
Who marked the pathway to glory 

With tears and blood that He shed. 
Dear mother, that "old, old story" 

Is the life of my life to me, 



432 HEART ECHOES. 

And I want to train my children 
To be all He would have them be. 

Oh, a mothers mission is holy, 

And she must be holy, too, 
Or sadly fail in performing 

The work God gives her to do. 
So while I am sweeping and scrubbing, 

And cleaning dust from the paint, 
In my heart I am earnestly praying 

To be clean of sin and its taint. 

While the farmer goes to his planting, 

The mother by look and tone 
Is sowing in soil just as certain 

To yield of the seed she has sown. 
The work that she does may be lowly, 

But angels are watching her life; 
The love of the Savior sustaineth 

Each faithful mother and wife. 



HEART ECHOES. 433 



A MOTHER'S ADVICE. 

— Lee, 

A LITTLE bird with feathers brown 
Sat singing - on a tree; 
The song was very soft and low, 
But sweet as it could be. 

And all the people passing by 

Looked up to see the bird 
That made the sweetest melody 

That ever they had heard. 

But all the bright eyes looked in vain, 

For birdie was so small, 
And with a modest, dark-brown coat, 

He made no show at all. 

"Why, mamma!" little Gracie said, 
"Where can the birdie be? 
If I could sing a song like that, 
I'd sit where folks could see." 



434 HEART ECHOES. 

"I hope my little girl will learn 
A lesson from the bird, 
And try to do what good she can, 
Not to be seen or heard. 

"This birdie is content to sit 
Unnoticed by the way, 
And sweetly sing his Maker's praise 
From dawn till close of day. 

"So live, my child, all through your life, 
That, be it short or long, 
Though others may forget your looks, 
They'll not forget your song.'"' 



HEART ECHOES. 435 



UNFINISHED STILL. 

A BABY'S boot, and a skein of wool, 

Faded and soiled, and soft; 
Odd things, you say, and no doubt you're right, 
Round a seaman's neck this stormy night, 
Up in the yards aloft. 

Most like it's folly; but, mate, look here; 

When first I went to sea, 
A woman stood on a far-off strand, 
With a wedding ring on the small soft hand 

Which clung so close to me. 

My wife, God bless her! The day before 

She sat beside my foot; 
And the sunlight kissed her yellow hair, 
And the dainty fingers, deft and fair, 

Were knitting a baby's boot. 

The voyage was over, I came ashore; 
What, think you, found I there? 



436 HEART ECHOES. 

A grave the daisies had sprinkled white; 
A cottage empty, and dark as night, 
And' this beside the chair. 

The little boot, 'twas unfinished still; 

The tangled skein lay near; 
But the knitter had gone away to rest, 
With the babe asleep on her quiet breast, 

Down in the churchyard drear. 



WANT TO SEE MOTHER. 

T)ECENTLY a young lady residing in Sacramento 
had been ill for some months. One day her 
mother, worn out by care and watching, had lain 
down upon the foot of the bed, leaving two women 
to watch over the sufferer, who appeared to be in a 
stupor. She had been asleep but a few minutes when 
her daughter awoke and inquired of the nurse: 
"Where is mother? I want to sec her this minute." 
The ladies explained the circumstances, to which 
the girl replied: "Yes, I know mother is tired out; 
but I must see her right now." Expostulations were 



HEART ECHOES. 437 

useless; she became excited and reaching over to 
her mother, endeavored to arouse her, but was too 
weak. The ladies finally concluded to wake the 
parent, who immediately sat up in bed and looked at 
her daughter. The latter glanced full in her face for 
a second, and fell back dead. 

Her last look was in her mother's face — the 
first face she ever recognized, the last she ever saw. 
May we not hope that she shall recognize that face 
again, in the first dawning glories of the eternal 
day ? 

An old gray-headed Scotch woman lay on her 
dying bed, and called again and again for her mother. 
Friends, kindred, family and associates were forgot- 
ten, the only word upon her lips, the only memory 
lingering in her heart, was "Mither." That mother 
had been sleeping in her grave for more than fifty 
years ! and yet, like a weary child, the gray-haired 
woman, with her drawn countenance and withered 
heart, loved like an infant to nestle In her mother's 
arms. 

Mother, do you know the power that God has 

given you ? You touch springs that may vibrate in 
the great beyond — keys that may awake eternal 



438 HEART ECHOES. 

melody. You stamp your image first and deepest 
on the human soul. 

A surgeon, in seeking for a stray bullet that had 
wounded one of Napoleon's soldiers, pushed his 
probe near the region of the heart. "Go a little 
deeper," said the old veteran, "and you will find the 
Emperor." So when all other thoughts and mem- 
ories and impressions are effaced, go a little deeper; 
at the bottom of all is found mother, and the only 
deeper thought is that of God ! 

Mother, do your work well. Let prayers and 
smiles, and tears and kisses, and counsels and en- 
couragements come from a mother as they can come 
from no one else, that at last you may lead your little 
flock to the heavenly fold, saying, "Behold I, and 
the children whom Thou hast given mc" 



TTE who passes a day of his manhood without re- 
membering his mother's eyes, as they looked 
to him in childhood, is losing the best part of remem- 
brance. 



HEART E CHOES. 439 



BEYOND. 



DEYOND life's toils and cares, 

Its hopes and joys, its weariness and sorrow, 
Its sleepless nights, its days of smiles and tears, 
Will be a long sweet life, unmarked by years, 

One bright, unending morrow. 



Beyona time's troubled stream, 
Beyond the chilling waves of death's dark river, 
Beyond life's lowering clouds and fitful gleams, 
Its dark realities and brighter dreams, 

A beautiful forever. 

No aching hearts are there, 
No tear-dimmed eye, no form by sickness wasted, 
No cheek grown pale through penury or care, 
No spirits crushed beneath the woes they bear, 

No sighs for bliss untasted. 

No sad farewell is heard, 
No lonely wail for loving ones departed, 



440 HEART ECHOES. 

No dark remorse is there o'er memories stirred, 
No smile of scorn, no harsh or cruel word 
To grieve the broken heart. 

No mortal eye hatn seen 
The glories of that land beyond that river, 
Its crystal lakes, its fields of living green, 
Its fadeless flowers, and the unchanging sheen 

Around the throne forever. 

Ear hath not heard the song 
Of rapturous praise within that shining portal ; 
No heart of man hath dreamed what joys belong 
To that redeemed and happy blood-washed throng, 

All glorious and immortal. 



HEART ECHOES. 441 



ROCK OF AGES. 

"DOCK of Ages, cleft for me"— 

Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, 
Fell the words unconsciously 

From her girlish, gleeful tongue ; 
Sang as little children sing; 

Sang as sing the birds in June ; 
Fell the words like light leaves down 
On the current of the tune — 
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

"Let me hide myself in Thee" — 
Felt her soul no need to hide : 
Sweet the song as song could be — 
And she had no thought beside ; 
All the words unheedingly 

Fell from lips untouched by care, 
Dreaming not they each might be 
On some other lips a prayer — 
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee"." 



442 HEAR T E CHOES. 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — 
'Twas a woman sung them now; 
Pleadingly and prayerfully, 

Every word her heart did know. 
Rose the song as storm-tossed bird 

Beats with weary wing the air, 
Every note with sorrow stirred — 
Every syllable a prayer — 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — 

Lips grown aged sung the hymn, 
Trustingly and tenderly — 

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim, 
"Let me hide myself in Thee" — 

Trembling though the voice and low, 
Ran the sweet strain peacefully, 

Like a river in its flow, 
Sung as only they can sing, 

Who behold the promised rest — 
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 



HEART ECHOES. 443 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — 
Sung above a coffin lid, 
Underneath, all restfully, 

All life's joys and sorrows hid. 
Never more, O storm-tossed soul, 
Never more from wind or tide, 
Never more, from billow's roll, 

Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 
Could the sightless, sunken eyes, 

Closed beneath the soft gray hair, 
Could the mute and stiffened lips 
Move again in pleading prayer, 

Still, aye, still, the words will be, 
"Let me hide myself in Thee." 



n^HE every-day cares and duties, which men call 

drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises 

of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true 

vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when 

they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no 

longer swings, the hands no longer move, the clock 

stands still. 

— Longfellow. 



444 HEART ECHOES. 

THE ALABASTER BOX. 

— Talmage. 

T\0 not keep the alabaster boxes of your love 
and tenderness sealed up until your friends 
are dead. Fill their lives with sweetness. Speak 
approving, cheering words while their ears can hear 
them, and while their hearts can be thrilled by 
them. The things you mean to say when they are 
gone, say before they go. The flowers you mean 
to send for their coffins, send to brighten and 
sweeten their homes before they leave them. If 
my friends have alabaster boxes laid away, full of 
perfumes of sympathy and affection, which they in- 
tend to break over my dead body, I would rather 
they would bring them out in my weary hours and 
open them, that I may be refreshed and cheered 
by them when I need them. I would rather have 
a funeral without an eulogy than a life without the 
sweetness of love and sympathy. Let us learn to 
anoint our friends beforehand for their burial. Post 
mortem kindnesses do not cheer the burdened spirit. 
Flowers on the coffin cast no fragrance backward 
over the weary days. 



HEAR T E CHOES. 445 

THE TWO BELLS. 

— Bessie Chandler. 

X ONG years ago, so runs an ancient story, 

Two bells were sent from Spain to that fair 
clime 
New-found, beyond the sea, that to God's glory 
And in His house together they might chime. 

And to this day one bell is safely swinging 

Within its sheltering tower, where, clear and free, 

It hallows each day with its mellow ringing; 
The other bell, the mate, was lost at sea. 

And when in gentle chime the bell is pealing, 
The people listen; for they say they hear 

An echo from the distant ocean stealing — 
It is the lost one's answer, faint, yet clear. 

Ah, love, like those two bells we sailed together, 
And you have reached your holy work and rest; 

But stormy was the way and rude the weather, 
And I was lost beneath the wave's white crest. 



446 , HEART ECHOES. 

Over my buried heart the waters glisten; 

Across my breast the seaweeds wave and twine; 
Dead is my soul's best life, save when I listen, 

And hear your spirit calling unto mine. 

Then the old longing wakes — I start, I shiver, 
I try to break the bonds which hold me dumb, 

I turn, I strive with many a throe and quiver; 
I feebly answer, but I cannot come. 



LUDWIG'S LOVE. 

— Field. 

/^\NCE upon a time there were two youths named 
Herman and Ludwig, and they both loved 
Eloise, the daughter of the old burgomaster. Now, 
the old burgomaster was very rich, and, having no 
child but Eloise, he was anxious that she should be 
well married and settled in life. "For," said he, 
'death is likely to come to me at any time; I am old 
and feeble, and I want to see my child sheltered by 
another's love before I am done with earth forever." 
Eloise was much beloved by all the youth in the 
village, and there was not one who would not gladly 



HEART ECHOES. 447 

have taken her to wife; but none loved her so much 
as did Herman and Ludwig. Nor did Eloise care for 
any but Herman and Ludwig; and she loved Her- 
man. The burgomaster said: "Choose whom you 
will — I care not! So long as he be honest I will have 
him for a son and thank heaven for him." 

So Eloise chose Herman and all said she chose 
wisely, for Herman was young and handsome and by 
his valor had won distinction in the army and had 
thrice been complimented by the general. So when 
the brave young captain led Eloise to the altar there 
was great rejoicing in the village; the beaux, forget- 
ting their disappointment, and the maidens, seeing 
the cause of all their jealousy removed, made merry 
together, and it was said that never had there been in 
the history of the province an event so joyous as was 
the wedding of Herman and Eloise. 

But in all the village there was one aching heart. 
Ludwig, the young musician, saw with quiet despair 
the maiden he loved go to the altar with another. 
He had known Eloise from childhood and he could 
not say when his love for her began — it was so very 
long ago — but now he knew his heart was consumed 
by a hopeless passion*. Once, at a village festival, he 



448 HEART ECHOES \ 

had begun to speak to her of his love, but Eloise had 
placed her hand kindly upon his lips and told him to 
say no further, for they had always been and always 
would be brother and sister. So Lud wig never spoke 
his love after that, and Eloise and he were as brother 
and sister, but the love of her grew always within 
him, and he had thought but of her. 

And now, when Eloise and Herman were wed, 
Ludwig feigned that he had received a message from 
a rich relative in a distant part of the kingdom, bid- 
ding him come thither, and Ludwig went from the 
village and was seen no more. 

When the burgomaster died all his possessions 
went to Herman and Eloise, and they were accounted 
the richest folk in the province, and so good and 
charitable were they that they were beloved by all. 
Meanwhile Herman had risen to greatness in the 
army, for by his valorous exploits he had become a 
general and he was much endeared to the king. And 
Eloise and Herman lived in a great castle in the 
midst of a beautiful park, and the people came and 
paid them reverence there. 

And no one in all these years spoke of Ludwig. 
No one thought of him. And so the years went by. 



HEAR T E CHOES. 449 

It came to pass, however, that from a far distant 
province there spread the fame of a musician so 
great that the king sent for him to visit the court. 
No one knew the musician's name or whence he 
came, for he lived alone and would never speak of 
himself; but his music was so tender and beautiful 
that it was called heart-music, and he himself was 
called the Master. He was old and bowed with 
infirmities, but his music was always of youth and 
love; it touched every heart with its simplicity and 
pathos, and all wondered how this old and broken 
man could create so much of tenderness and sweet- 
ness on these themes. 

But when the king sent for the Master to come to 
court, the Master returned him answer: "No, I am 
old and feeble. To leave my home would weary me 
unto death. Let me die here as I have lived these 
long years, weaving my music for hearts that need 
my solace." 

Then the people wondered. But the king was 
not angry; in pity he sent the Master a purse of gold, 
and bade him come or not come, as he willed. Such 
honor had never before been shown any subject in 
the kingdom, and all the people were dumb with 



450 HEAR T- E CHOES. 

amazement. But the Master gave the purse of gold 
to the poor of the village wherein he lived. 

In those days Herman died, full of honors and 
years, and there was a great lamentation in the land, 
for Herman was beloved by all. And Eloise wept 
unceasingly and would not be comforted. 

On the seventh day after Herman had been 
buried, there came to the castle in the park an aged 
and bowed man, who carried in his white and trem- 
bling hands a violin. His kindly face was deeply 
wrinkled, and a venerable beard swept down upon his 
breast. He was weary and footsore, but he heeded 
not the words of pity bestowed on him by all who 
beheld him tottering on his way. He knocked 
boldly at the castle gate and demanded to be brought 
into the presence of Eloise. 

And Eloise said: "Bid him enter; perchance his 
music will comfort my breaking heart." 

Then, when the old man had come into her 
presence, behold ! he was the Master — ay, the Mas- 
ter whose fame was in every land, whose heart-music 
was on every tongue. 

"If thou art indeed the Master," said Eloise, 
"let thy music be balm to my chastened spirit." 

The Master said: "Ay, lady, I will comfort thee 



HEART ECHOES. 451 

in thy sorrow, and thy heart shall be stayed, and a 
great joy will come to thee." 

Then the Master drew his bow across the strings, 
and lo ! forthwith there arose such harmonies as El- 
oise had never heard before. Gently, persuasively, 
they stole upon her senses and filled her soul with an 
ecstasy of peace. 

" Is it Herman that speaks to me?" cried Eloise. 
"It is his voice I hear, and it speaks to me of love. 
With thy heart-music, O Master, all the sweetness of 
his life comes back to comfort me." 

The Master did not pause as he played; it seemed 
as if each tender word and caress of Herman's life 
were stealing back on music's pinions to soothe the 
wounds that death had made. 

"It is the song of our love life," murmured El- 
oise. " How full of memories it is — what tenderness 
and harmony — and oh, what peace it brings! But 
tell me, Master, what means this minor chord — this 
undertone of sadness and of pathos that flows like a 
deep, unfathomable current throughout it all, and 
wailing weaves itself about thy theme of love and 
happiness with its weird and subtile influences?" 

Then the Master said: "It is that shade of sor- 
row and sacrifice, O lady, that ever makes the picture 



452 HEART ECHOES. 

of love more glorious. An undertone of pathos has 
been my part in all these years to symmetrize the 
love of Herman and Eloise. The song of thy love is 
beautiful, and who shall say it is not beautified by 
the sad undertone of Ludwig's broken heart ?" 

" Thou art Ludwig ?" cried Eloise. " Thou art 
Ludwig who didst love me, and hast come to comfort 
me, who loved you not ? " 

The Master indeed was Ludwig, but when they 
hastened to do him homage he heard them not, for 
with that last and sweetest heart-song, his head sank 
upon his breast, and he was dead. 



T LIVE for those who love me, 

Whose hearts are kind and true; 

For the heaven that smiles above me 

And waits my spirit too; 

For all human ties that bind me, 

For the task my God assigned me, 

For the bright hopes left behind me, 

And the good that I can do. 

— Byron. 



HEART ECHOES. 



453 



N 



"N. FOR NANNIE AND B. FOR BEN." 

— J. Gault Davis. 

FOR Nannie and B. for Ben; 
* I see them now as I saw them then, 
On the bark of the oak 




tree wed. 
She stood by my side in Ki 

the clover white, |jl|j| 

While the liquid gold of gjii 

the June sunlight SSII 

Swept over her sweet EWj 

young head; jBHI 

And I had just carved BUI 

those letters twain, I 
Which time and the tern- pi] 
pests all in vain %%» 

Have striven to blur % 
and blot; 'j 

They live in the oak tree's § 

dusky grain, 
Stamped is their memory 4 
on my brain; 
Changing, changing, and fading not. 




. i'ii, ..■ '.. 



L 

"P§8 




iisi 



gjp. 



454 HEART ECHOES. 

Oh! the vows that I vowed that day! 
Their broken shards in my bosom stay, 

Wounding it hour by hour. 
Could I prove false to one so true? 
Dared I prove cruel, my love, to you? 

Oh, Nannie, my lily flower! 
Ere the snow had whitened those letters twain 
In the old church porch you hid your pain 

As I and my bride passed by. 
Your eyes were brave, but your cheek grew white - 
The cheek that I should have pillowed that night, 

Where now it shall never lie. 

Little Nannie, you are at rest, 
Buttercups growing over your breast, 

Close by the churchyard gate; 
And I have lived to rue the day. 
Gold tempted my steps from love away, 

And mine is the saddest fate. 
I'd give the rest of my life to-night 
To see you stand in the clover white, 

The sun on your locks of gold, 
And carve once more as I carved them then, 
N. for Nannie and B. for Ben 

On the bark of the oak tree old. 



HEART ECHOES. 455 

SEASONS OF LIFE. 

— Dr. Adams. 

A T a festival party of old and young, the ques- 
tion was asked : What season of life was the 
most happy? After being freely discussed by the 
guests, it was referred for answer to the host, upon 
whom was the burden of four-score years. He 
asked if they had noticed a grove of trees before 
the dwelling, and said: "When the spring comes, 
and in the soft air the buds are breaking on the trees, 
and they are covered with blossoms, I think ' how 
beautiful is spring;' and when summer comes and 
covers the trees with its heavy foliage, and singing 
birds are among the branches, I think ' how beauti- 
ful is summer.' When autumn loads them with 
golden fruit, and their leaves bear the gorgeous tint 
of frost, I think 'how beautiful is autumn.' And 
when it is sear winter, and there is neither foliage 
nor fruit, then I look up, and through the leafless 
branches see as I never could see before, the stars 
shining through." 



456 HEART ECHOES. 



HEAVEN AT LAST. 



-Horatiiis Bonar. 



A NGEL voices sweetly singing, 

Echo through the blue dome ringing, 
News of wondrous gladness bringing; 
Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 



Now, beneath us all the grieving, 
All the wounded spirit's heaving, 
All the woe of hopes deceiving; 
Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 

Sin forever left behind us, 
Earthly visions cease to blind, 
Fleshly fetters cease to bind us; 
Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 

On the jasper threshold standing, 
Like a pilgrim safely landing, 
See, the strange bright scene expanding ; 
Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 



HEART ECHOES. 457 

What a city; what a glory; 
Far beyond the brightest story 
Of the ages old and hoary; 

Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 

Softest voices suver-pealing, 
Freshest fragrance, spirit-healing, 
Happy hymns around us stealing ; 
Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 

Gone the vanity and folly, 
Gone the dark and melancholy, 
Come the joyous and the holy; 
Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 

Not a broken blossom yonder, 
Not a link can snap asunder, 
Stay'd the tempest, sheathed the thunder; 
Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 

Not a tear-drop ever falleth, 
Not a pleasure ever palleth, 
Song to song forever calleth ; 

Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 



458 HEART ECHOES. 



SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? 

— George D. Prentiss, 

HE fiat of death is inexorable. There is no ap- 



T 



peal for relief from that great law which dooms 
us to dust. We flourish and fade as the leaves of the 
forest; and the flowers that bloom, and wither and 
fade in a day have no frailer hold upon life than the 
mightiest monarch that ever shook the earth with his 
footsteps. Generations of men will appear and dis- 
appear as the grass, and the multitude that throngs 
the world to-day will disappear as footsteps on the 
shore. 

Men seldom think of the great event of death, 
until the shadow falls across their own pathway, hid- 
ing from their eyes the faces of loved ones, whose 
living smile was the sunlight of their existence. 
Death is the antagonist of life, and the thought of 
the tomb is the skeleton of all feasts. We do not 
want to go through the dark valley, although the 
dark passage may lead to paradise; we do not want 
to go down into damp graves, even with princes for 
bedfellows. In the beautiful drama of Ion, the hope 



HEART ECHOES. 459 

of immortality, so eloquently uttered by the death- 
devoted Greek, finds deep response in every thought- 
ful soul. When about to yield his life a sacrifice to 
fate, his Clemanthe asks, if they should meet again; 
to which he responds: "I have asked that dreadful 
question of the hills that look eternal, of the clear 
streams that flow forever, of stars among whose fields 
of azure my raised spirits walked in glory. All are 
dumb. But, as I gaze upon thy living face, I feel 
that there is something in love that mantles through 
its beauty, that cannot wholly perish. We shall meet 
again, Clemanthe." 



IF AND IF. 

— Mary Ainge De Vere. 

TF all the pity and love untold, 

Could scatter abroad in coins of gold, 
There would not be, on the whole round earth, 
One hungry heart, nor one wretched hearth. 
And oh, if the kind words never said, 
Could bloom into flowers, and spread and shed 
Their sweetness out on the common air, 
The breath of heaven would be everywhere. 



460 HEART ECHOES. 



FINISHING LIFE. 

THE following thoughts on Old Age are selected from the writings 
of Cicero, one of the ablest and wisest citizens of the grand old 
Roman nation. He was born one hundred and six years before Christ, 
and filled a long career with honor and undying worth. His life is 
regarded as one among many pleasant proofs that God never leaves 
himself without a witness in the hearts of men, in any age or any 
country. 

Those who have no internal resources of hap- 
piness will find themselves uneasy in every stage 
of human life; but to him who is accustomed to 
derive happiness from within himself, no state will 
appear as a real evil into which he is conducted 
by the common and regular course of nature; and 
this is peculiarly the case with respect to old age. 
I follow nature, as the surest guide, and resign my- 
self with implicit obedience to her sacred ordinances. 
After having wisely distributed peculiar and proper 
enjoyments to all the preceding periods of life, 
it cannot be supposed that she would neglect the 
last, and leave it destitute of suitable enjoyments. 
After a certain point of maturity is attained, marks 
of decay must necessarily appear; but to this un- 



HEART ECHOES. 461 

avoidable condition of his present being, every wise 
and good man will submit with contented and cheer- 
ful acquiescence. 

Nothing can be more void of foundation than 
the assertion that old age necessarily disqualifies a 
man for taking part in the great affairs of the world. 
If an old man cannot perform in business a part 
which requires the bodily strength and energy of 
more vigorous years, he can act in a nobler and 
more important character. "Momentous affairs of 
state are not conducted by corporeal strength and 
activity; they require cool deliberation, prudent coun- 
sel and authoritative influence: qualifications which 
are strengthened and improved by increase of years. 
Few among mankind arrive at old age; and this 
suggests a reason why the affairs of the world are 
not better conducted, for age brings experience, 
discretion and judgment, without which no well in- 
formed government could have been established or 
can be maintained. Appius Claudius was not only 
old but blind when he remonstrated in the senate 
with so much force and spirit against concluding a 
peace with Pyrrhus. The celebrated general Quin- 
tus Maximus led our troops to battle in his old age, 



462 HEART ECHOES. 

with as much spirit as if he had been in the prime 
and vigor of life. It was by his advice and elo- 
quence, when he was extremely old, that the Cincian 
law concerning donatives was enacted. And it was 
not merely in the conspicuous paths of the world that 
this excellent man was truly great. He appeared 
still greater in the private and domestic scenes of 
life. There was a dignity in his deportment, tem- 
pered with singular politeness and affability; and 
time wrought no alteration in his amiable qualities. 
How pleasing and instructive was his conversation; 
how profound his knowledge of antiquity and the 
laws. His memory was so retentive that there was 
no event of any note connected with our public af- 
fairs with which he was not well acquainted. I 
eagerly embraced every opportunity to enjoy his so- 
ciety, feeling that after his death I should never again 
meet so wise and improving a companion. 

But it is not necessary to be a hero or a states- 
man in order to lead an easy and agreeable old age. 
That season of life may prove equally serene and 
pleasant to him who has passed his days in the retired 
paths of learning. It is urged that old age impairs 
the memory. It may have that effect on those in 



HEART ECHOES. 463 

whom memory was originally infirm, or who have not 
preserved its vigor by exercising it properly. But the 
faculties of the mind will preserve their power in old 
age, unless they are suffered to become languid for 
want of due cultivation. Cams Callus employed 
himself to the very last moments of his long life in 
measuring the distances of the heavenly orbs and 
determining the dimension of this, our earth. How 
often has the sun risen in his astronomical calcula- 
tions; how frequently has night overtaken him in 
the same elevated studies; with what delight did he 
amuse himself in predicting to us, long before they 
happened, the several lunar and solar eclipses. Other 
ingenious applications of the mind there are, though 
of a lighter nature, which may greatly contribute to 
enliven and amuse the decline of life. Thus Nsevius, 
in composing his poem on the Carthagenian war, 
and Plautus, in writing his last two comedies, filled 
up the leisure of their latter days with wonderful 
complacency and satisfaction. I can affirm the same 
of our dramatic poet Livius, whom I remember to 
have seen in his old age; and let me not forget Mar- 
cus Cethegus, justly styled the soul of eloquence, 
whom I likewise saw in his old age, exercising even 



464 HEART E CHOES. 

his oratorical talents with uncommon force and vi- 
vacity. All these old men I saw pursuing their 
respective studies with the utmost order and alacrity. 
Solon, in one of his poems, glories that he learned 
something every day he lived. Plato occupied him- 
self with philosophical studies till they were inter- 
rupted by death, at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates 
composed his famous discourse when he was ninety- 
four years old, and he lived five years afterward. 
Sophocles continued to write tragedies when he was 
extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle to the 
philosophical pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno, Cleanthes 
or the venerable Diogenes. These eminent persons 
persevered in their studies with undiminished earnest- 
ness to the last moment of their extended lives. 
Liontinus Gorgias, who lived to be one hundred and 
seven years old, pursued his studies with unremitting 
assiduity to the last. When asked if he did not wish 
to rid himself of the burden of such prolonged years, 
he replied, "I find no reason to complain of old 
age." 

The statement that age impairs our strength is 
not without foundation. But, after all, imbecility of 
body is more frequently caused by youthful irregular- 



HEART ECHOES. 465 

ities than by the natural and unavoidable consequences 
of long life. By temperance and exercise, a man may 
secure to his old age no inconsiderable degrea of his 
former spirit and activity. The venerable Lucius 
Metellus preserved such a florid old age to his last 
moments as to have no reason to lament the depreda- 
tions of time. If it must be acknowledged that time 
inevitably undermines physical strength, it is equally 
true that great bodily vigor is not required in the de- 
cline of life. A moderate degree of force is sufficient 
for all rational purposes. I no more regret the ab- 
sence of youthful vigor. Old age has, at least, suffi- 
cient strength remaining to train the rising generation, 
and instruct them in the duties to which they may 
hereafter be called; and certainly there cannot be a 
more important or a more honorable occupation. 
There is satisfaction in communicating every kind of 
useful knowledge; and it must render a man happy to 
employ the faculties of his mind in so noble and ben- 
eficial a purpose, how much soever time may have im- 
paired his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the 
evening of life, are generally fond of associating with 
the younger part of the world, and when they discover 
amiable qualities in them, they find it an alleviation 



466 HEART ECHOES. 

of their infirmities to gain their affection and esteem, 
and well-inclined young men think themselves equally- 
happy to be guided into the paths of knowledge and 
virtue by the instructions of experienced elders. I 
love to see the fire of youth somewhat tempered by 
the sobriety of age, and it is pleasant to see the grav- 
ity of age enlivened by the vivacity of youth. Who- 
ever combines these two qualities in his character will 
never exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though 
his body may bear the marks of years. 

As for the natural and necessary inconveniences 
attendant upon length of years, we ought to counter- 
act their progress by constant and resolute opposi- 
tion. The infirmities of age should be resisted like 
the approach of disease. To this end we should use 
regular and moderate exercise, and merely eat and 
drink as much as is necessary to repair our strength 
without oppressing the organs of digestion. And the 
intellectual faculties, as well as the physical, should 
be carefully assisted. Mind and body thrive equally 
by suitable exercise of their powers, with this differ- 
ence, however, that bodily exertion ends in fatigue, 
whereas the mind is never wearied by activity. 

Another charge against old age is, that it de- 



HEART ECHOES. 467 

prives us of sensual gratifications. Happy effect, 
indeed, to be delivered from those snares which allure 
youth into some of the worst vices. "Reason," said 
Archytas, "is the noblest gift which God or nature 
has bestowed on men. Now, nothing is so great an 
enemy to that divine endowment as the pleasures of 
sense; for neither temperance, nor any of the more 
exalted virtues, can find a place in that breast which 
is under the dominion of voluptuous passions. Im- 
agine to yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of 
the highest gratifications mere animal nature is cap- 
able of receiving. There can be no doubt that during 
his continuance in that state it would be utterly im- 
possible for him to exert any one power of his rational 
faculties." The inference I draw from this is, that if 
the principles of reason and virtue have not proved 
sufficient to inspire us with proper contempt for mere 
sensual pleasures, we have cause to feel grateful to 
old age for at least weaning us from appetites it would 
ill become us to gratify; for voluptuous passions are 
bitter enemies to all the nobler faculties of the soul. 
They hold no communion with the manly virtues, and 
they cast a mist before the eye of reason. The little 
relish which old age leaves for enjoyments merely 



468 HEART ECHOES. 

sensual, instead of being a disparagement to that 
period of life, considerably enhances its value. 

I derive much pleasure from hours devoted to 
cheerful discourse, that I love to prolong my meals, 
not only when the company is composed of men of 
my own years, few of whom indeed are now remain- 
ing, but also when it chiefly consists of young persons. 
And I acknowledge my obligations to old age for 
having increased my passion for the pleasures of con- 
versation, while it has abated it for those which de- 
pend solely on the palate. 

The advantages of age are inestimable, if we 
consider it as delivering us from the tyranny of lust 
and ambition, from angry and contentious passions, 
from inordinate and irrational desires; in a word, as 
teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look for 
happiness in our own souls. If to these moral bene- 
fits, which naturally result from length of days, be 
added the sweet food of the mind, gathered in the 
fields of science, I know of no season of life that is 
passed more agreeably than the learned leisure of a 
virtuous old age. Can the luxuries of the table, or 
the amusements of the theater, supply their votaries 
with enjoyments worthy to be compared with the 



HEART ECHOES. 469 

calm delights of intellectual enjoyments? And, in 
minds rightly formed and properly cultivated, these 
exalted delights never fail to improve and gather 
strength with years. 

From the pleasures which attend a studious old 
age, let us turn to those derived from rural Occupa- 
tions, of which I am a warm admirer. Pleasures of 
this class are perfectly consistent with every degree 
of advanced years, as they approach more nearly 
than any others to those of a purely philosophical 
kind. They are derived from observing the nature 
and properties of our earth, which yields ready 
obedience to the cultivator's industry, and returns 
with interest whatever he places in her charge. 
But the profits arising from this fertility are by no 
means the most desirable circumstances of the farm- 
er's labors. I am principally delighted with observ- 
ing the powers of nature, and tracing her processes 
in vegetable productions. How wonderful it is that 
each species is endowed with power to continue 
itself, and that minute seeds should develop so 
amazingly into large trunks and branches. The or- 
chard, the vegetable garden and the parterre diversify 
the pleasures of farming, not to mention the feeding 



47o HEART ECHOES. 

of cattle and the rearing of bees. Among my friends 
and neighbors in the country are several men far 
advanced in life, who employ themselves with so 
much activity and industry in agricultural business 
that nothing important is carried on without their 
supervision. And these rural veterans do not con- 
fine their energies to those sorts of crops which are 
sown and reaped in one year. They occupy them- 
selves in branches of husbandry from which they 
know they cannot live to derive any advantage. If 
asked why they thus expend their labor, they might 
well reply: "We do it in obedience to the immor- 
tal gods. By their bountiful providence we received 
these fields from our ancestors, and it is their will 
that we should transmit them to posterity with im- 
provements." In my opinion there is no happier 
occupation than agriculture, not only on account of 
its great utility to mankind, but also as the source of 
peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate on the beauties 
of verdant groves and meadows, on the charming 
landscape of olive trees and vineyards; but to say all 
in one word, there cannot be a more pleasing or a 
more profitable scene than that of a well cultivated 
farm. And where else can a man in the last stages 



HEART ECHOES. 471 

of life more easily find warm sunshine, or a good 
fire in winter, or the pleasure of cooling- shades and 
refreshing streams in summer ? 

It is often argued that old age must necessarily 
be a state of much anxiety and disquietude, on 
account of the near approach of death. That the 
hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an aged 
man is undoubtedly true. But every event that is 
agreeable to the course of nature ought to be re- 
garded as a real good; and surely nothing can be more 
natural than for the old to die. It is true that youth 
also is exposed to dissolution; but it is a dissolution 
obviously contrary to nature's intentions, and in op- 
position to her strongest efforts. Fruit, before it is 
ripe, cannot be separated from the stalk without some 
degree of force; but when it is perfectly mature, it 
drops itself; so the disunion of the soul and body is 
effected in the young by violence; but in the old it 
takes place by mere fullness and completion of years. 
This ripeness for death I perceive in myself with much 
satisfaction; and I look forward to my dissolution as 
to a secure haven where I shall at length find a happy 
repose from the fatigues of a long voyage. 

With regard to the consequences of our dissolu- 



472 HEART ECHOES. 

tion, I will venture to say that the nearer death ap- 
proaches the more clearly do I seem to discern its real 
nature. When I consider the faculties with which 
the human mind is endowed, its amazing celerity, its 
wonderful power in recollecting" past events, and its 
sagacity in discerning the future, together with the 
numberless discoveries in arts and sciences, I feel a 
conscious conviction that this active, comprehensive 
principle cannot possibly be of a mortal nature. And 
as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its en- 
ergy from its own intrinsic and essential powers, 
without receiving it from any foreign or external im- 
pulse, it necessarily follows that its activity must con- 
tinue forever. I am induced to embrace this opinion, 
not only as agreeable to the best deductions of rea- 
son, but also in deference to the authority of the 
noblest and most distinguished philosophers. 

I am well convinced that my departed friends 
are so far from having ceased to live, that the state 
they now enjoy can alone with propriety be called 
life. I feel myself transported with impatience to 
join those whose characters I have greatly respected 
and whose persons I have loved. Nor is this earnest 
desire confined alone to those excellent persons with 



HEAR T E CHOES. 473 

whom I have been connected. I ardently wish also 
to visit those celebrated worthies of whom I have 
heard or read so much. To this glorious assembly I 
am speedily advancing; and I would not be turned 
back on my journey, even on the assured condition 
that my youth should be again restored. The sincere 
truth is, if some divinity would confer on me a new 
grant of life, I would reject the offer without the least 
hesitation. I have well nigh finishe.d the race, and 
have no disposition to return to the starting point. 
I do not mean to imitate those philosophers who 
represent the condition of human nature as a subject 
of just lamentation. The satisfactions of this life are 
many; but there comes a time when we have had a 
sufficient measure of its enjoyments, and may well 
depart contented with our share of the feast. I am 
far from regretting that this life was bestowed on me; 
and I have the satisfaction of thinking that I have 
employed it in such a manner as not to have lived in 
vain. In short, I consider this world as a place 
which nature never intended for my permanent abode; 
and I look on my departure from it, not as being 
•driven from my habitation, but simply as leaving an 
inn. 



474 HEART ECHOES. 



THE BREAKING LIGHT. 

—J. G. Whittier. 

/"~\H, sometimes glimpses on my sight, 

Through present wrong, the eternal light; 
And step by step since time began, 
I see the steady gain of man. 

That all of good the past hath had 
Remains to make our own time glad, 
Our common daily life divine, 
And every land a Palestine. 

For still the new transcends the old 
In signs and tokens manifold; 
Slaves rise up men, the olive waves 
With roots deep set in battle-graves. 

Through the harsh noises of our day, 
A low, sweet prelude finds its way; 
Through clouds of doubt and creeds of fear 
A light is breaking, calm and clear. 



HEART ECHOES. 475 



THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

HPHE day was gone, and the night was dark, 

As the howling winds went by, 
And the blinding sleet fell thick and fast 

From a stern and stormy sky. 
When a mournful wail, through the rushing gale, 

Was heard at the cottage door — 
"Oh, carry me back, oh, carry me back, 

To my mother's home once more." 

'Twas a youth who had left his mountain home, 

He had wander'd far and long; 
He had drain'd the goblet's fiery tide, 

At the festal midnight throng; 
He had left the hall of the tempter's power, 

And the revel wild and high- — - 
They cared not in their reckless mirth 

If he wandered alone to die. 
But a dream of home came o'er his heart, 

As he crept to the cottage door — 
"Oh, carry me back, oh, carry me back, 

To my mother's home once more." 



476 



HEART ECHOES. 



"I WANT MY MAMMA, TOO!" 




H^HE red December sun had disappeared behind 
the distant hills in the midst of glories in- 
describable, and deep- 
brooding night hung over 
the quiet valley. 

Towards the north 
the thick clustering lights 
WM^BSmmmmH^" of a 'city sent up a puny 
challenge to the radiant stars massed overhead. 

Towards the south, stretching down the val- 
ley like the tail of a little comet, the lights in 
hundreds of suburban villas peered like curious eyes 
into the outer darkness. 

The entire scene was one of peace and repose. 
In one of the villas an upturned curtain revealed a 
pretty sight. A beautiful lady sat in a chair in the 
center of a drawing room, and from opposite corners 
two manly little fellows were making repeated on- 
slaughts upon her, their apparent object being to 



HEART ECHOES. 477 

see who should gain the chair first and be rewarded 
for his prowess with a kiss from its fair, sweet oc- 
cupant. 

A gentleman seated at one end of the room 
glared up now and then, with a sort of frowning 
smile, as peal after peal of boyish laughter disturbed 
his calm communion with his favorite evening paper, 
but he had not the heart to put a stop to this im- 
provised game, as it went merrily on. 

Meanwhile, a wee figure was toiling up the road 
from an adjacent house. She was evidently a fugi- 
tive, for she was hatless, and her stockings had 
fallen down from her knees and were rolled about 
her diminutive shoes, leaving the little white legs 
exposed to the chill wintry air. A mass of tangled 
golden hair floated back in the breeze, and the sweet 
violet eyes were welling over in great tears, which 
rolled down the ruddy cheeks and splashed upon the 
little hands holding tight to her breast a ragged doll. 

Great sobs convulsed the tiny creature as she 
half ran along the frosty road. 

"Oh, Dod, tell me where my mamma is," the baby 
implored. And ever and again that plaintive little 



478 HEART ECHOES. 

cry broke forth: " Oh, Dod, tell me where my mam- 
ma is." 

No one had yet missed her from home, so there 
was no pursuit. 

Presently she arrived at the house with the up- 
drawn curtains. It was only a few rods from her 
own home, but to the weary little feet the distance 
had been tremendous. 

She, paused at the gateway, and hearing the 
sound of laughter within, and attracted by the 
brightly lighted windows, she toiled up the steps to 
the piazza, and approaching the nearest window, 
sat down and looked in. 

Something in the merry scene within seemed to 
bring a fresh sense of desolation to the little heart 
without. The golden head leaned heavily against the 
bright pane, and a wail — "Oh, Dod, I want my 
mamma, too," — burst from the quivering, rosebud 
mouth. 

' ' Oh, Dod, I want my mamma, too! " The game 
ceased suddenly, for the words seemed to cut through 
the clear glass to the ears within. 

One of the boys ran to the window, and drew 



HEAR T E CHOES. 479 

back quickly, and with amazement and pity in his 
voice, cried out: 

"Oh, mamma, come quick. There's a poor lit- 
tle girl outside." 

The beautiful lady came swiftly to the window. 
For one moment she gazed, motionless with pity, on 
the tiny creature lying huddled up against the pane; 
then quickly raising the broad sash, she put out her 
arms and gathered the little girl lovingly into them. 

"It is little Grace Meredith!" she exclaimed in 
wonder. "Why, darling, how did you come here all 
alone?" 

The lady pressed the child to her warm mother 
heart, and seating herself in a chair wiped away the 
tears from the sweet eyes. 

"I want my mamma," was all little Grace could 
say. 

The tears sprang suddenly to the lady's own sweet 
eyes. 

"John," she whispered to her husband, who had 
left his paper and was regarding the group with cu- 
rious emotion. "John, go over, please, and tell Mr. 
Meredith his little girl is with us, safe and sound. 
And," she added, as the gentleman was about to leave, 
"ask him, please, to let her stay with us to-night. 



480 



HEART ECHOES. 



It will do her good to be with the children, poor, 
motherless little darling." 

The child looked at the gentleman with grave, 
questioning eyes, but said nothing. Her mother had 

been buried the day before, 
and her little heart was filled 
with longing for the dear ca- 
resses she had lived and 
thrived upon. 

" I want my mamma," she 
said again, in tones that 
seemed to imply that they 
could give her what she so 
much desired. 

' ' Yes, dear , " said the lady 
soothingly, tears dropping 
from her eyesuponthegolden 
head. "Yes, dear, you shall 
have your mamma one of these days; one of the 
beautiful distant days when God in His goodness shall 
give the child back to its mother, and the mother to 
her child. Hush, darling, hush! Mamma is waiting 
for you way, way up beyond the shining stars, and, 




HEART ECHOES. 481 

you shall go to her, dear, when God has made you 
ready for the change." 

And so they soothed little Grace, and sang to 
her, and the boys brought out their playthings for her, 
and all were so good and gentle to her that for a time 
she forgot the soreness in her bosom and was happy. 

But that night, after the golden head had sunk 
wearily to rest, and a tiny white-robed form lay still 
in the crib that had been found for it, the beautiful 
lady's eyes overflowed as a tremulous sob reached her 
ear, and in her sleep little Grace again murmured her 
baby petition, "Oh, Dod, I want my mamma, too." 



HOLD it a religious duty 
To love and worship children s beauty. 
They've least the taint of earthly clod, 
They're freshest from the hand of God. 

— Campbell. 



TN the man whose childhood has known caresses, 
there is always a fiber of memory which can be 
touched to grentle issues. 



482 HEAR T E CHOES. 

A REPLY TO INGERSOLL. 

—A. C. Wheeler. 

/^VNE night, in the New York Acadamy of Music, 
after Mr. R. G. Ingersoll in one of his lectures 
had denounced religion, ridiculed reverence and per- 
formed his spiritual clown trick on the mercy seat 
of every one's sensibility, two rough looking young 
men were coming down the stairs, when one of them 
accosted the other with: 

"Well, Bill, he made a clean sweep of it, eh? 
There ain't nothing left." 

"Well, I ; don't know," replied the other; "I 
kinder feel that the old woman's there yet. She 
ain't lost her grip on me." 

I thought of this for a long time afterward. 
It was the answer of sentiment that came over the 
golden wires of that boy's memory and loyalty. 
There was an old woman somewhere who had woven 
her example and her love into the fiber of his man- 
hood, and he couldn't quite get away from her; and, 
somehow, all the irreverence of that lecture seemed 
to strike at her. 

And that old woman sits in the hearts of mil- 



HEART ECHOES. 483 

lioiio, answering this sentimentalism with her mute 
but eloquent example. 

I have seen her everywhere, poor, care-worn, 
sitting with her hands folded. Her work is done, 
and she is waiting for eternity. I've heard the boy 
on the battlefield call for her. I've heard the dying 
wretch in the hospital murmur with stiffening lips, 
as he passed out into the dark Beyond, the name of 
mother. I've seen the wildest debauchee, in the 
orgies of his sin, brought up and sobered, as some 
wave from the past washed in upon his soul and 
brought with it the sweet and holy recollection of 
that mother. 

Talk about dimples! I kiss that withered and 
wrinkled hand. Honest chivalry could not do less. 
The very seams and scars upon her face are beauti- 
ful, noble, memorial; I look into your dim but un- 
complaining eyes, and remember how you poured 
all the affluence of a mother's heart upon your boys 

— how you went often hungry and thinly clad — -how 
you clung to them with something like desperation 

— how many tears you shed that they never saw — 
how many wounds you bore that they never felt. 

I salute you, Christian mothers of America; you 
believe in God; poverty cannot dim the lustre of 



484 HEART ECHOES. 

your devotion, nor adversity bend the fiber of your 
faith. Your example, your precepts, your character 
have passed into the generation, and whenever any- 
thing more dangerous than sentimentalism assaults 
Christianity, millions of your sons who may not have 
kept all the commandments, nor practiced all your 
precepts, will rise up from one sea-washed limit of 
the republic to the other to defend the altars you 
have left behind. 



M 



AN is the creature of interest and ambition. 
His nature leads him forth into the struggle 
and bustle of the world. Love is but the estab- 
lishment of his early life, or a song piped in the in- 
tervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, 
for space in the world's thought, and dominion over 
his fellow men. But a woman's whole life is a his- 
tory of the affections. The heart is her world; it is 
there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her 
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth 
her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole 
soul in the traffic of affection, and, if shipwrecked, 
her case is hopeless, for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

— Irving. 



HEART ECHOES. 485 



A VANISHING DREAM. 

HPHERE lies in the depths of every heart that dream 
of our youth, and the chastened wish of man- 
hood, which neither cares nor honors can ever extin- 
guish — the hope of one day resting from the pursuits 
which absorb us; of interposing between our old age 
and the tomb some tranquil interval of reflection, 
when, with feelings not subdued but softened, with 
passions not exhausted but mellowed, we may look 
calmly on the past without regret, and on the future 
without apprehension. But in the tumult of the 
world, this vision forever recedes as we approach it; 
the passions which have agitated our life disturb our 
latest hour; and we go down to the tomb, like the sun 
into the ocean, with no gentle and gradual withdraw- 
ing of the light of life back to the source which gave 
it, sullen in its beamless descent, with all its fiery 
glow, long after it has lost its power and splendor. 



TF the internal griefs of every man could be read 
-*- written on his forehead, how many who now ex- 
cite envy would appear to be objects of pity. 



486 



HEART ECHOES. 



TWENTY YEARS AGO. 

I've wander'd to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the 

tree, 
Upon the school-house playing ground, that shelter'd 

you and me; 




But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were 
left to know, 



HEART ECHOES. 487 

That played with us upon the grass, some twenty 
years ago. 



The grass is just as green, dear Tom; barefooted boys 

at play, 
Were sporting there as we did then, with spirits just 

as gay; 
But the master sleeps upon the hill, which coated o'er 

with snow, 
Afforded us a sliding place, just twenty years ago. 



The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the 

spreading beach, 
Is very low; 'twas once so high, that we could almost 

reach; 
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started 

so, 
To find that I had changed so much, since twenty 

years ago. 



488 HEART ECHOES. 

Down by the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut 
your name, 




Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did 

mine the same. 
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; 'twas 

dying sure, but slow, 
Just as the one whose name was cut, died twenty years 

ago. 



HEART ECHOES. 489 

My lids have long been dry, dear Tom, but tears came 

to my eyes, 
I thought of those we loved so well, those early broken 

ties; 




I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers 

to strew 
Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty 

years ago. 



Some are in the church-yara laid, some sieep beneath 

the sea; 
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and 

me; 



49° 



HEART ECHOES. 



And when our time shall come, dear Tom, and we are 

called to go, 
I hope they'll lay us where we played, just twenty 

years ago. 




HEART ECHOES. 491 



GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE. 

pRANDFATHER is old. His back is bent. In 
the street he sees the crowds of men looking 
dreadfully young, and walking frightfully swift. He 
wonders where all the old folks are. Once, when a 
boy, he could not find young people enough for 
him, and he sidled up to any young stranger he 
met on Sunday, wondering why God made the world 
so old. Now he goes to commencement to see his 
grandson take his degree, and is astonished at the 
youth of the audience. "This is new," he says, "it 
did not use to be so fifty years ago." At meeting 
the minister seems surprisingly young, and the 
audience young. He looks around, and is aston- 
ished that there are so few venerable heads. The 
audience seems not decorous. They come in late, 
and hurry away early, clapping the door after them 
with irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous, 
well mannered, early in his seat ; if jostled, he 
jostles not again ; elbowed, he returns it not again ; 
crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to 



492 HEART ECHOES. 

the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar ; for 
grandfather is a gentleman ; not puffed up with mere 
money, but edified with well-grown manliness. Time 
has dignified his good manners. 

It is night. The family are all abed. Grand- 
father sits by his old-fashioned fire. He draws his 
old-fashioned chair nearer to the hearth. On the 
stand which his mother gave him are the books 
he loves most ; the fire on the hearth is low. 
He has been thoughtful all day, talking to himself, 
chanting a bit of a verse, humming a snatch of an 
old tune. He kissed his pet grand-daughter more 
tenderly than common, before she went to bed. 
He takes out of his bosom a little locket ; nobody 
ever sees it. Therein are two little twists of hair. 
As grandfather looks at them, the outer twist of 
hair becomes a whole head of ambrosial curls. He 
remembers stolen interviews, meetings by moon- 
light. He remembers how sweet the evening star 
looked, and how he laid his hand on another's 
shoulder, and said: "You are my evening star." 

The church clock strikes the midnight hour. 
He looks at the locket again. The other twist is 
the hair of his first-born son. At this same hour 




GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE. 



HEART ECHOES, 493 

of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and 
prayed, when the agony was over: "My God, I 
thank thee, that, though I am a father, I am still 
a husband. What am I, that unto me a life should 
be given, and another life spared?" 

Now he has children, and children's children — ■ 
the joy of his old age. But for many years his wife 
has looked to him from beyond the evening star. 
She is still the evening star herself; yet more beau- 
tiful; a star that never sets; not mortal with wife 
now, but angel. 

The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, 
and falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands 
stand there. Grandfather lays them together, and 
they flame up; the two smokes are united in one 
flame. "Even so let it be in heaven," says grand- 
father. 



^T^HE heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling, 

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, 
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing 
It can twine to itself, and make closely its own. 

— Moore. 



494 HEAR T E CHOES. 



THE PRETTY BABY. 

^ ISN'T he a pretty baby, John? See, just look at 
him ! " and the mother holds up the tiny crea- 
ture to papa, who kisses and fondles him lovingly. 

"Yes, Kate, he is a pretty baby, but Tom was 
a pretty baby, too, you remember." 

"Yes, Tom was a pretty baby — everybody said 
so," and she glances across the room at a sunny-faced 
four-year-old, " but Willie is not like Tom. Willie's 
hair is light and his eyes," looking wistfully into the 
baby's face, "are dark, and so deep that when I look 
in them I am almost afraid, they have such a far 
away light, they seem to see something we can not." 

" Oh, nonsense! don't think that. He'll grow up 
to be a fine fellow. But, Kate, I wouldn't think so 
much about him; he is a dear, good little fellow, but 
I wouldn't worship him; it isn't right." 

"As if I could help it," the mother says re- 
proachfully, pressing the slight form closer and look- 
ing into the dark eyes yearningly. 

A month passes away, and one day they stand 
beside a small, white casket, within which the pretty 



HEART ECHOES. 495 

baby is sleeping. Ah, the mother's eyes were sharp, 
'and when friends said, "what beautiful bright eyes 
he has," she saw the far away look and knew it as 
the light that never was on land or sea. 

"Oh, John, John!" she moaned. "I knew he 
wasn't long for this world. I could see it in his eyes. 
Oh, my pretty baby ! " 

"Yes, dear, you were right," says papa, and 
there is a quiver in the firm voice; "if it had pleased 
God to have left him with us we would have cared 
for him the best we could, but we must give him up, 
for it is His will, and He knows what is best for us." 

"Yes, I know it," and she stoops and cuts a tiny 
wisp of hair from the baby's head.' "Oh, John, you 
said I worshipped him. I did, oh, I did, and, God 
forgive me, I can't be sorry for it now, he was such 
a dear, pretty baby." 

Years pass on. Other babies are born. They 
are all pretty babies, every one who sees them says 
that, but none are like the baby with the far-away 
look. As they grow up, they love to gather around 
mother's chair, and she never tires of telling of the 
dark-eyed baby who went to live with God. And 
when, with childish curiosity, they open the Bible to 
look at the picture, and find between the leaves a 



496 HEAR T E CHOES. 

tiny wisp of hair tied with white satin ribbon, they 
touch it reverently and whisper beneath their breath: 
"The pretty baby." 

Years still pass on. The children grow to be 
sturdy men and women, and as the mother watches 
them she sometimes thinks, "If he had lived he 
would have been such a beautiful man," and then she 
smiles and is glad that in heaven there is no time, 
and that no matter how the others may change, he 
is still the pretty baby." 

One day they gather around her bed, and, look- 
ing in each other's face, mournfully whisper: 

"She is dying!" 

She stretches her thin hand toward the table on 
which the old Bible rests, and they say: 

"The baby's hair." 

They place it in her hand. She kisses it tenderly 
and a bright light comes into the dim old eyes, and 
they say: 

"What does she see?" 

She smiles and whispers: "The pretty baby." 

They place the wisp of hair on her breast and 
fold the wrinkled hands upon it, and tenderly lay her 
by the side of the pretty baby. 



HEART ECHOES. 497 



A NAME IN THE SAND. 

A LONE I walk'd on the ocean strand. 
A pearly shell was in my hand; 
I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand 

My name, the year, the day. 
As onward from the spot I pass'd, 
One lingering look behind I cast — 
A wave came rolling high and fast, 
And wash'd my lines away. 

And so, methought, 'twill quickly be 
With every mark on earth with me: 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 

Will sweep across the place 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been to be no more; 
Of me, my day, the name I bore, 

To leave no track or trace. 

Yet on my heart, as not on sands, 
Inscribed by slow, relentless hands, 



49 8 HEAR T E CHOES. 

I know a lasting record stands 

Inscribed against my name — , 
Of all this mortal part has wrought, 
Of all this thinking soul has thought, 
All from these fleeting moments caught, 
For glory or for shame. 



"REMEMBER ME." 

HPHERE are not two other words in the language 
that call back a more fruitful train of past re- 
membrances of friendship than these. Look through 
your library, and when you cast your eye upon a 
volume that contains the name of an old companion, 
it will say — remember me. Have you an ancient 
album, the repository of the mementoes of early affec- 
tion? Turn over its leaves, stained by the finger of 
time; sit down and ponder upon the names enrolled 
upon them — each says, Remember me. Go into the 
crowded churchyard, among the marble tombs; read 
the simple and brief inscriptions that perpetuate the 
memory of departed ones. They, too, have a voice 
that speaks to the hearts of the living, and it says, 
Remember me. Walk, in the hour of evening twi- 



HEART ECHOES. 499 

light, amid the scenes of your early rambles. The 
well known paths, the winding streams, the over- 
spreading trees, the green and gently-sloping banks, 
will recall the dreams of juvenile pleasure, and the 
recollections of youthful companions. They, too, bear 
the treasured injunction, Remember me. 

And this is all that is left at last of the wide 
circle of our early friends. Scattered by fortune, or 
called away by death, or thrown without our band by 
the changes of circumstances or of character, in time 
we find ourselves left alone with the recollection of 
what they were. Some were our benefactors, and 
won us by their favors; others were kind, and amiable, 
and affectionate, and for this we esteemed them; 
others, again, were models of virtue, and shared our 
praise and admiration. It was thus a little while, and 
then the chances of the world broke in upon the de- 
lighted intercourse; it ceased. Yet still we do all we 
can to discharge the one sacred, and honest, and 
honorable debt — we remember them. 

The tribute, too, of remembrance which we de- 
light to pay to others we desire for ourselves. The 
wish for applause, the thirst for fame, the desire that 
our names should shine down to future posterity in 
the glory of recorded deeds is a feverish, unhappy 



500 HEART ECHOES. 

passion compared with the unambitious desire to re- 
tain, even beyond the span of life, the affections of 
the warm-hearted few who share our joys and sorrows 
in the world. I once read the brief inscription "Re- 
member me" on a tombstone, in a country church- 
yard, with a tear that the grave of Bonaparte would 
not have called forth. 

But whom do we always remember with affec- 
tion? The virtuous, the kind, the warm-hearted — 
those who have endeared themselves to us by the 
amiableness of their characters. It is the mind, the 
disposition, the habits, the feelings of our friends 
which attach us to them most strongly; which form 
the only lasting bond of affection; which alone can 
secure our affectionate remembrances. 

Then, if we would be remembered with the kind- 
liest feelings, if we would be embalmed in the mem- 
ory of those we love; if we desire that, when fortune 
or fate shall separate us from our friends, they may 
long think of us, we must ourselves possess the same 
character we love in others. Never was a more noble 
line written in the history of man than this: "The 
first emotion of pain he ever caused was caused by 
his departure." 



HEART ECHOES. 501 

HOME. 

\ CHILD, speaking to a friend of his home, was 
asked: " Where is your home? " Looking up 
with loving eyes at his mother, he replied, " Where 
mother is." Home! " What a hallowed name! How 
full of enchantment and how dear to the heart! Home 
is the magic circle within which the weary spirit finds 
refuge ; it is the sacred asylum to which the care-worn 
heart retreats to find rest from the toils and cares of 
life. Home! That name touches every fiber of our 
soul. Nothing but death can break its spell." And, 
as dear as home can be, is the mother that presided 
over it, and that we loved. Long years may have 
flown since we saw that home, and since the dearest of 
all earthly friends has slept the long and silent sleep of 
death ; but that home and that mother will never cease 
to awaken the sweetest recollections of our lives. 
" Home, Sweet Home!" 
Some years ago twenty thousand people gathered 
in the old Castle Garden, New York, to hear Jenny 



502 HEART ECHOES. 

Lind sing, as no other songstress ever had sung, the 
sublime compositions of Beethoven, Handel, etc. At 
length, the Swedish nightingale thought of her home, 
paused and seemed to fold her wings for a higher 
flight. She began, with deep emotion, to pour forth, 
" Home, Sweet Home." The audience could not stand 
it. An uproar of applause stopped the music. Tears 
gushed from the eyes of that vast multitude like rain. 
After a moment, the song came again, seemingly as 
from heaven — almost angelic, " Home, Sweet Home!" 
That was the word that bound, as with a spell, twenty 
thousand souls, and Howard Payne triumphed over 
the great masters of song. 

Home of our childhood! We are folded again in 
mother's arms. She is again leaning over us, and 
bathing our forehead and cooling our fevered brow. 
But, alas, that mother is no longer in that home. She 
has gone to live with the angels. But there is another 
home, a home beyond the stars; and mother has gone 
to live " Where* they know not the sorrows of time. " 
"Up to that world of light, 
Take us, dear Savior; 



HEART ECHOES. 503 

May we all there unite, 
Happy forever. 

Where kindred spirits dwell, 

There may our music swell, 

And time our joys dispel — 
Never — no, never! " 
Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the 
grave. At the best estate, we are only pilgrims here. 
Heaven is our eternal home. Death will never knock 
at the door of that mansion. " Parents rejoice very 
much when, on Christmas day, or on Thanksgiving 
day, they have their children at home ; but there is 
almost always a son or a daughter absent from the 
country, or from the world." But, oh! how glad we 
will be when we are all at home, all safe at home. 
Once there, let earthly sorrows howl like storms, and 
swell like seas. Home! Let thrones decay and em- 
pires wither. Home! Let the world die in earth- 
quake struggles, and be buried amid the procession of 
planets and dirge of spheres. Home! Let everlasting 
ages roll in irresistible sweep. Home! No sorrow, no 
crying, no death, but home, sweet home. Beautiful 



504 HEART ECHOES. 

home! Everlasting home! Home with each other! 
Home with the angels! Home with God! Home 
with mother! Home! Home!! 

Adieu, reader. Here we lay down our pen, but 
here we do not end our meditations. The heart 
ever listens to the 

UNWRITTEN SONGS. 
r PHERE are songs that are written and songs that 
are sung, 



That thrill us with truth, like a prayer, 
ut sweeter than these are the son. 
Has ever been known to declare. 



But sweeter than these are the songs that no tongue 



There's a life that we live, that never appears 
To the world or the friend at our side, 

There's a song in the silence, a song that cheers 
The hope that is broken, the courage that's tried. 

The fibers of being are swept and are stirred 

By the touch of a masterful hand, 
Whilst the heart's own voice, in tenderest word, 

Sings us a song we all understand. 

THE END. 



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